


The Lesser Key of Holden Ford

by Bebopand (VivaRocksteady)



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Catholic Guilt, Demonic Possession, Demons, Demons Made Them Do It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exorcisms, Extremely Dubious Consent, First Time, Holden as a priest, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Roman Catholicism, Sacrilege, Slurs, Templars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-01-15 06:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21248639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivaRocksteady/pseuds/Bebopand
Summary: Bill rubbed his face and kept his eyes on the road.Stop thinking about how he looks,he thought angrily. Holden Ford was his cross to bear.--An AU where everything is the same except Bill is a Templar Knight, and Holden is the pilgrim priest he has sworn to protect.And then a demon shows up.COMPLETE!





	1. I am Poison Crazy Lush

**Author's Note:**

> I'm an ex-Catholic who misses the ritual, and this fic is not meant to be either pro- or anti-Catholic. But like, there's going to be a demon who will say some very mean things about God, the church, and pretty much everything else, so if that's not your cup of tea you might want to turn back!

"Could you use more soda, Bill?" asked the murderer. "Or maybe you'd like some coffee?"

"I'm fine, Ed," said Bill.

"I just want you to be comfortable," said Kemper. "I do appreciate the two of you taking the time to visit me so often." 

"Well, we learn a lot from you, Ed," said Father Ford, smiling, almost batting his stupid lashes. 

"Thank you, Father. It means a lot. I was never really made to feel valuable before." 

"Do you think that would have changed things?" 

"Maybe," said Kemper. "But mostly it's nice to talk to a priest who doesn't act like I'm pure evil."

_You are pure evil_, thought Bill. He fiddled with his cold pizza crust.

"I don't even remember the last time I went to church," said Kemper. 

"You don't attend mass here?" asked Father Ford.

"Oh, I do. The chaplain here is quite nice, very intelligent. He's good to talk to. I mean before it all happened." Kemper shifted his massive body on a chair that seemed doll-sized in relation. "I went as a child, of course, but when Mother started to hate me..." He crossed his gargantuan feet under his chair, manacles clinking. "She thought I had a demon in me. Kept trying to get me exorcised."

Father Ford furrowed his brow, leaned forward on the desk. The tape recorder whirred beside him. "Exorcised? The church doesn't do that very often these days."

"Well, tell that to her." Kemper scratched his nose with a sausage-sized finger. "She dragged me to four different priests. None of them would do it. I didn't meet any of their qualifications, of course, because I didn't have a demon. It was just me. Now, they thought I was evil. Told me I was full of sin, sure. But not a demon." 

He stared out at them through those thick lenses, like some ugly, venomous toad. "She never looked at me the same after that." 

Ford tilted his head. Bill lit a cigarette. The tape recorder kept whirring.

"Do you believe in demons, Ed?" asked Ford.

Kemper laughed. "No. Do you, Father?" 

Bill looked over at Father Ford. The kid looked flustered, wide-eyed. "Well… the official stance of the church is that--"

"I didn't ask about the church," said Kemper, sounding amused, crossing his arms. "I asked about you." 

Father Ford looked over at Bill. Bill ashed his cigarette and looked back, chin up. _You got yourself into this one,_ he thought.

"I… believe that there are a lot of things in this world that are beyond my vision and knowledge," said Ford.

"Very diplomatically put," said Kemper. "How about you, Bill?"

Bill took a drag on his cigarette. "Yeah, I do," he said.

He could feel Father Ford staring at him in surprise.

Kemper straightened up. "You don't say. How come?"

"It's not a story I like telling."

Kemper straightened up even more. Father Ford turned in his seat to face Bill. They had the exact same look of boyish fascination on both their faces. 

"Was it something that happened on the force?" Kemper asked, a smile threatening. "Something in the Knights Templar?"

Kemper had wanted to be a Templar. Thank heavens for small mercies.

"We're not here to talk about me," said Bill. "We're here to talk about how you picked your victims." 

Kemper smirked. "I picked ones that I wanted to fuck, Bill," he said. 

Then he stood up abruptly, his massive heft controlled like a submarine leaving dock.

Beside Bill, Father Ford flinched very, very slightly. Bill didn't, but he kept his gaze straight on the murderer, and he kept his face still.

Kemper only stretched his back. "So I suppose some of the other guys in this study of yours, some of them claim to have demons?" 

"Not really," said Father Ford. "Most of them have an egotistical need to be recognized for their crimes. Even if they did have a demon, at least some of them would probably deny it." 

Bill took another drag of his cigarette. Kid was quoting Sister Wendy again. He was like a sponge. Had to watch what you said around him. 

Kemper started sauntering to the side of the room, where the guards lounged with their backs towards them. "Have you spoken to Berkowitz yet?" 

Ford's eyes were bright. "No. But we're hoping to. He's the only one we know who believes he has a demon." 

"He doesn't believe it," said Kemper. "He made it up. Hey, Pete." He got the attention of one of the guards at the door. "Could you have someone fetch a book from my cell, please? It's a little white paperback, last on the left on the lower shelf. I'd like to give it to Father Ford as a gift. You can search it, there's nothing hidden in there." 

"Sure, Ed," said one of the guards.

Ford looked at Bill, lit up in absolute joy.

"Take it easy," muttered Bill.

"The mind is very powerful." Kemper ambled back over to them, orating like a fucking high school teacher who knew his student had a crush on him. "If you talk to enough of these guys, eventually you'll find one who thinks he has a demon. And even if you don't believe in them-- but especially if you do-- you should be prepared. Knowledge is power, right Father Ford?" 

He stood directly in front of Ford, who stared up at him. Bill stiffened. 

"That's right, Ed," said Ford.

"Do they teach you about demons in the seminary?"

Ford sputtered a laugh. "Not really," he said. 

"No exorcisms?" 

Ford shook his head. "You have to go to Rome for special training." 

"Hmm." Kemper glanced up at Bill, who glared at him. "Do you know about the Key of Solomon?" 

"No," said Ford. 

"Here you go, Ed," said the guard.

"Ah, thanks Pete. That was really nice of you." Kemper took the book and brought it to the table. "Solomon was given a magic ring by the archangel Michael, and used it to conjure demons and trick them into building his temple for him."

Father Ford shook his head. "I know about the Seal of Solomon. That's not-- that's mythology. It's not canon." 

"Oh, yes, the Key of Solomon is certainly pseudepigraphical," said Kemper. His obvious enjoyment of speaking such a long word made Bill want to roll his eyes. "But some people believe whatever they read." He set the book on the table and then dropped back into his seat, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

Bill stared at Father Ford. Father Ford stared at the book.

"What is it?" asked Ford. 

"It's Solomon's grimoire. Instructions on how to conjure the demons, and how to get rid of them."

Ford looked at Bill. Bill couldn't shake his head, not without giving Kemper exactly the power he wanted, so he stared at Ford intently, hoping he'd get the picture.

"Take it," said Kemper. "It's a gift. There's the Key and the Lesser Key, you usually can't find them together. They were written by different people. The Lesser Key is just more demons, more sigils."

Ford swallowed. Stared at the book. "Why do you want me to take this, Ed?" 

Kemper tilted his head. Bill wanted to punch him so fucking bad.

"If you know a demon's name, you have power over it," he said. "I want you to be safe, Father. I'd hate to think of something happening to you out there."

_You hate to think of something happening to him at someone else's hands,_ thought Bill.

"Well, thanks, Ed," said Ford. "I appreciate the thought." He took the book.

Bill closed his eyes, suppressed a sigh.

"We have to go back to Virginia tomorrow," said Father Ford.

"Then I suppose I won't see you for quite some time," said Kemper. "I'll miss our chats."

"Me too, Ed."

Kemper looked at Bill expectantly. Bill just stared back.

"Father Ford," said the murderer. "Will you pray with me?" 

Ford blinked. 

"It's been years since I've prayed," Kemper went on. "I go to mass, because we have to, but I don't take part in it. It'd be nice to pray again." He put his huge, meaty hands on the table, palms up. 

Father Ford looked at Bill. Bill wanted to shake his head again. But telling a priest he couldn't pray with a penitent? That had to be a sin, and Bill wasn't sure he could risk any more of those. 

"Sure, Ed," said Ford. He reached out and put his hands in Kemper's. They looked so small and delicate and vulnerable. 

Bill felt his skin get hot, his blood run faster. 

Father Ford lowered his head and closed his eyes. Kemper followed suit.

"Most glorious God," Ford began. "Please bless and protect Your child, Edmund Kemper. Pardon his sins and bring him into the fullness of Your mercy. For You have made us for Yourself, oh Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You." 

"Amen," Bill croaked out, hoping to hurry it along.

"Our Father," Ford started the rote prayer. 

Kemper said the words along with him. While Father Ford still had his head bowed and eyes closed, while his hands were still engulfed in Kemper's giant paws, Kemper opened his eyes and looked up at Bill. 

He smiled. 

\--

The FBI, like everything else in the Catholic States of America, was controlled by the church. The Templars, though they had their roots in a military system like the Hospitallers or the Order of Michael of the Wing, who ran the army and air force respectively, had become a policing order by the time America was a nation. 

The FBI and the state investigation bureaus made up the bulk of the Templars' work, though they also consulted with local parish police forces, and had jurisdiction over them. While these days anyone could become an FBI agent, they primarily came from three orders: the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, known as the Knights Templar; the Ursulines, and the Augustinians.

Templars were forbidden to travel alone. Their millennia-old tradition started with protecting pilgrims on the road to Jerusalem, and protecting pilgrims was still their primary role today, even if they also worked as detectives or investigators. The priestly orders tended to do the research, and the knights were their protectors. 

So Bill always had a partner, or a whole unit of priests and nuns and a few lay pilgrims, under his protection. He'd started road school with Father Curtis, an Augustinian, until Curtis was called to Washington.

Father Ford was an Augustinian, too. He had been a hostage negotiator, and then an instructor at the New Temple of Solomon. Grand Master Shepherd told Bill that Ford was drowning, and Bill needed a new pilgrim if he wanted to keep doing road school, so it seemed as though God had brought them together. 

Bill liked Ford at first, but Christ could the kid ask a lot of questions. That's how they ended up meeting Kemper in the first place, and convincing Grand Master Shepherd to start the study, and luring Sister Wendy away from her school, and that's how this whole mess began.

\--

They had both taken a vow of poverty, which meant these trips took fucking forever. They flew to California, but had to drive all the way back to Quantico. It would take ten days, with four stops on the way for two road school lectures, and two prisoner interviews. It would probably take longer, if those road school lectures turned into pressing murder mysteries. 

On those long drives between cities, Father Ford obsessed over that stupid Key of Solomon. 

“You shouldn't be reading that,” said Bill. “Demonology is _not_ in our purview.” 

“Knowledge is power, Bill,” Ford replied, brightly. 

"Knowledge of what?" asked Bill. "That's not scripture, and it's not science. It's some occultist bullshit, probably written by charlatans to fleece idiots."

"You have a real rosy view of humanity, Sir Tench," said Ford.

"There hasn't been a documented demon possession in America in, what? Decades?"

"Oh, much more recently than that," said Ford. "They don't publicize them. I've always felt most of them were misread symptoms of mental illness. But there's certainly no shortage of occult activity."

"There's the _appearance_ of occult activity," said Bill. "Most of those crimes turn out to be something else. It's the same as the mental illness thing." 

"But isn't there a danger in that, Bill? Dismissing evil so it goes unnoticed?" Ford looked out the window. "If there _are_ demons out there, and if they _are_ using people to hurt others… which the church does affirm, and you seemed to believe…" He trailed off.

Bill looked over. Ford stared at him.

"And?" prompted Bill.

"I mean, what's the difference, then? We lock away violent criminals to try and save their souls, but we don't do anything for the demons afflicting them except cast them back out?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Bill scowled. "Do you-- are you suggesting we catalogue demons to… what? Understand them? Have _empathy_ for them?"

"They're creations of God, too, Bill," said Ford. "Maybe they can be saved." 

"That's insane," spat Bill. "They can't. They're demons."

"But why not? God made them, and God loved them. We've found some real, useful applications from our study already, I don't see why we have to limit ourselves--"

"Holden," Bill said, firmly, but calmly. "I am not entertaining this discussion with you. And if you talk to Grand Master Shepherd about it, for the love of Christ, please leave me out of it."

Bill concentrated on the road. For a while there just rock music on the radio. He could tell Father Ford was sulking. 

"Fine, Bill," Ford finally said, and went back to reading the Key of Solomon.

It was hot. Ford wore the shortest version of his blacks, a little button-down, short-sleeved shirt, white clerical collar tight around his throat. <strike> It was Bill's favourite. </strike>

Father Ford always wore his blacks. When they went to mass, or visited prisoners, he would wear his cassock, a long black jacket with flowing tails, all elegant lines and sweeping movements, looking like a reminder of every single one of Bill's worst sins. When they lectured on road school, he just wore the regular black jacket, and when it was warm, he bared those arms.

Bill rubbed his face and kept his eyes on the road. _Stop thinking about how he looks,_ he thought angrily. Holden fucken Ford was his cross to bear. 

Father Ford suddenly dropped his book into his lap. "I think I'd like to say confession today, Sir Tench," he said. 

"All right," said Bill. It was the pilgrim's journey, after all, and he was only the protector. That was as true for their road trips as it was for their study. They'd be in their next town before vespers. There should be time to find a church for confession. 

Ford looked at him sidelong. Paused just long enough to be awkward. "Will you say confession, too?"

"Why not," said Bill.

"You know," hedged Ford. "I could take your confession."

_Yeah fucking right,_ thought Bill. "I don't think that's necessary."

"I'm just saying, it would be easier, probably. I'd like to help." 

"Holden, there's priests crawling all over the place. I don't need to say confession to the guy I spend eight hours a day in a car with."

"Okay," Father Ford picked up the book again. "Offer's on the table, Bill, that's all." 

\--

They got back to Quantico. Bill went home to his wife, Ford to his residence at the New Temple of Solomon. 

Nancy was unhappy about Bill's long weeks on the road, but he'd made a vow to obey when he joined the Order, and she knew that. Traditionally, the Templars rarely accepted married men. There were more married men than not in the Order these days, but Bill still felt doubly obliged.

Months passed. 

They drove. Lectured. Interviewed. Bill would smoke about a pack a day, Father Ford would not. Ford would say prayers at night, Bill would not. Bill would call his wife and sometimes masturbate in the shower. Father Ford, presumably, would not. 

Over breakfast, Father Ford would intently watch Bill pour sugar in his coffee. Templars were forbidden from eating off their own plate, so Bill was obliged to share every meal with Ford, "two to a bowl," as the saying went. (Fast food in paper bags was a literal God send.) Thankfully he was allowed his own cup, so he could put as much sugar in his coffee as he wanted, and not have to choke down Ford's herbal tea swill. 

“I’d like to go to mass this morning, Sir Tench,” Ford would usually say. 

“All right,” Bill would always reply, because he had sworn to obey. The first thing he did when they were in a new town, after locating the precinct, was to locate the church. 

The starry-eyed Ed Kemper talk eventually died down, and thank heavens for that. The demon talk died down, too, which made sense, because it was really the Kemper talk in disguise. 

They were in Illinois. They had a circuit planned around the Great Lakes. They went to interview Richard Speck.

The thing about banal, human evil is that it's infectious. It filled the prison, and it poured out when they opened the gates, like steam from an oppressively hot sauna.

The guard called the prisoners animals. They had them stuffed in smaller cells than Bill had seen in any other prison. It was loud. It was not a place from which anyone emerged a better person.

Father Ford was tense, Bill could tell. His shoulders went up slightly as they walked past shouting prisoners. He clutched his rosary in one hand like that would protect him. And Bill was furious that their protocol wasn't followed, which probably wasn't making things any better.

"I don't know what you think you're gonna get from that shithead Speck," the guard said. "They tried to exorcise him, you know. Didn't change anything."

"They tried to exorcise him?" Ford looked over at Bill, wide-eyed. Bill rolled his eyes. "I hadn't heard about him being possesed at all."

"He's fucken _not_," said the guard. "His mom's a religious nutcase. No offense, Father. She arranged for it. I'm not sure what good it would have done. If they got rid of the demons, he'd still be in prison."

"When did this happen?" asked Bill.

"They gave up last week," said the guard. 

"Well, shit," said Bill.

"He's going to still be recovering," said Ford. "That could be good for us. His guard will be down."

"Or he'll be defensive, and it will be terrible for us," said Bill. 

It was terrible, but not in a way Bill could have foreseen.

The thing about banal, human evil is that it is innately different than true, capital E, biblical Evil. There's a natural predator-prey biological instinct that can tell you when someone bad is around. But true evil is something else.

Bill had felt the presence of true evil once before in his life. The second time he'd ever felt it was when Richard Speck walked into the interview room. 

Speck's body twisted with anger. He muttered hatefully, and clutched something in his hands. He stopped short when he saw Father Ford, and stared at him with cruel, small eyes. 

Then he turned to Bill. It was like a corpse was looking at him. 

“You shouldn’t’a brought _him_ here,” Speck snarled.

Bill didn’t respond. 

Ford stared at Speck with wide-eyed, loving empathy, a true desire to understand. Bill couldn't even imagine being the receipient of a look like that. 

Ford _awwed_ over the bird in Speck's hands, one he had captured shortly after his failed exorcism. Ford asked to see Speck's tattoo, and rolled up the murderer's sleeve, and endured being called a _little boy_.

Evil was already stinking up the room when Father Ford started in on his “eight ripe cunts” routine. 

But when Speck threw that bird into the fan, and declared that "it just wasn't their night," and Father Ford almost jumped out of his seat, Bill felt the evil _move_.

\--

The long drive to their next school gave Bill time to chew Ford out about that tape. 

“It’s not exactly priestly behaviour,” he said. 

“It got him to talk, didn’t it?”

“For about ten seconds,” said Bill. “Listen. All I'm saying is that it wouldn’t hurt to lose five minutes of that tape." 

“Lying’s a sin, Bill,” said Father Ford, and wasn’t that just the cherry on top?

“It’s not lying to just leave it out,” said Bill. 

“A lie by omission is still a lie,” said Ford. 

“Oh really!” spat Bill. “Where precisely in the scriptures does it say that _not bearing witness_ is exactly the same as bearing _false_ witness? Where does it say that, Father?”

Ford only stubbornly looked out the window. 

“Kid, your attitude is going to bite you in the--”

CRASH!!

It was blurry for a few seconds, all squealing tires and Bill’s own heart pounding in his ears. 

He got them over on the shoulder of the road, put his hazards on. “Jesus, kid, are you okay?”

Father Ford was still in a crash position, his arms crossed up over his face. His hands were cut and bloody. His arms shook as large eyes peeked up over them. 

A crow had flown straight into the windshield, right in front of Father Ford. The glass had splintered, and luckily only cracked far enough for the crow to lie embedded in the windshield, dead. 

Hopefully dead. 

“Holden!” Bill reached out for his pilgrim. Pulled his arms down gently so he could check his face-- one small cut on his forehead, eyes thankfully intact.

“I’m fine, Bill,” muttered Ford. 

“Are you sure?” Bill felt around Ford’s head for bumps, tried to look more carefully at the cut for any glass. 

Father Ford stared unblinking at the bird. “Where did it come from?”

“I don’t know,” said Bill, trying to hold Ford still so he could check out the cut. “I’ve never seen one near the highway. I thought crows were too smart.” 

Ford slowly reached out towards the dead, bloody, glass-covered thing. 

“Don’t touch it!” Bill said, pulling Ford’s hand back like it was Brian’s. 

Father Ford just kept staring. “Two birds in as many hours,” he said. “I guess it wasn’t their night.” 

“Jesus,” said Bill. He got out of the car and waved down help. 

\--

The next morning, Father Ford was listless and tired. 

"I'm just a bit run down, Bill," he said. "We can still teach. I just-- I think I'm going to skip church this morning. Get a bit more sleep." 

Bill frowned, but obeyed. He had to sort out the damaged rental car and get a new one, anyway. 

When Ford was more useless than usual during the lecture that afternoon, Bill took him by the elbow and steered him away from the bar. "Nothing for us, guys," he waved off the parish cops. 

"It's fine, Bill," said Ford, blinking slowly. "Let's go get a drink."

"Something's up with you," said Bill. "Are you sure you didn't hit your head yesterday?" 

"I'm fine." 

"I think I should take you to the doctor." 

Ford scowled like a child, and pulled away violently when Bill reached for him.

"Hey," Bill said firmly. "I'm a Templar. It's my job to look after you."

"Your _job_ is to solve crimes," said Ford.

"Fine," Bill curled his lip. "Both of our jobs is to help solve crimes. But my _calling_, Father Ford, is to protect pilgrims, and that's you." 

"A pilgrim for _knowledge_," Father Ford spat with such sarcastic intensity that Bill was taken aback. 

Ford himself looked momentarily surprised. He stared at the ground, and rubbed his face. "Sorry, Bill. I'm just tired. It's all this time on the road. If it would make you feel better, I'll go to the doctor."

"Thank fuck," said Bill. 

\--

The doctor couldn't find anything wrong with Father Ford.

"You should get some more sleep, if anything," she said. "Drinking more water couldn't hurt, either." 

"You see, Bill?" Ford said as they left, shrugging his jacket on in the parking lot. "I'm fine. But I'll do as the doctor said and go straight to bed. You can go for drinks if you want. I don't mind." 

Bill grumbled about it, but his options were drinks with the parish cops, or sitting alone with his thoughts while Ford slept.

He went for drinks.

When he got back to the room, it was dark, and he could tell Ford was under the covers. There was a strange sort of gasping sound. 

"Hey, kid," Bill whispered, reaching for the lamp. "You okay?"

With the lamp on, he could see Ford was still fast asleep. The covers were kicked up, revealing shapely, pale legs. 

Ford was humping the mattress in his sleep.

"Shit," Bill hissed. He turned off the lamp and tiptoed hurriedly to the bathroom. In all the many, many hours they'd spent in close quarters together, Ford had _never_ done anything like this. Bill assumed, if Ford indulged in self abuse at all, he did it in the shower or when Bill wasn't around. He couldn't risk Father Ford realizing he'd seen that, the poor kid would die of embarrassment.

He reached the bathroom door when Ford sighed a heart-wrenching little sigh. "Oh, Bill," he moaned in his sleep.

_Oh, shit_, Bill thought. He locked himself in the bathroom and prayed, just to keep himself from thinking about anything else, and especially not that moan. He only crept out hours later, when he was certain Ford was finished.

\--

The next day, he had trouble waking Father Ford. 

"Mmrrmm," Ford mumbled miserably.

"Hey," said Bill. "Are you feeling worse? I think that doctor was full of shit." He felt Ford's forehead, but it was cool.

"M’fine," Ford batted his hand away. 

"Do you think you can manage breakfast? I'll cancel the lecture today. We'll just drive straight home. You can sleep in the car." 

"No," Ford struggled to sit up. "I can work. Bill, I-- I wanna say confession."

"Okay," said Bill. "You sure?" 

"Uh-huh," said Ford. He took a breath and shook out his shoulders and arms. "I've been worn out. I'm sorry. I just need lots of water and some tea and I'll be fine." He smiled at Bill.

Bill frowned. But he obeyed.

\--

Ford paused at the entrance to the church. He looked confused, until he noticed Bill watching him. Then he seemed to come back to himself. He blessed himself with water from the font, a cross smudged over the centre of his brow, and when they got in the pew in the back, he immediately got on the kneeler and started praying. 

People filtered in for mass. Bill looked at this watch, and the confessional booth. "Hey," he shook Ford's shoulder. "You're gonna miss confession."

He realized Ford wasn't praying at all, just resting his head on the pew back in front of him. "Oh," he said. "Maybe I'll skip confession today. Just mass."

"If you say so. You alright?"

"It's just a headache," Ford sat back in the pew. "It's like I said, Bill, it's all that time in the car."

They sat through mass. Father Ford sang, and he sounded like himself, and he listened intently to the sermon. They received communion, and they both partook in the blood of Christ. Father Ford looked better than he had in days. 

As they drove to the precinct, Ford suddenly leaned out of the passenger window and puked up all that blood of Christ. 

"Jesus!" cried Bill. "That doctor was an idiot. Something is seriously wrong with you." 

"I think it's just a bug," Ford wiped his mouth sheepishly. "Maybe it wasn't, I don't know, fully incubated yet. I just need to go back to bed. Is that okay? If you do the lecture alone?"

"Yeah," said Bill. "Or, you know. I could take you to a hospital."

"I just need a day off," said Ford. "Maybe some Tylenol. And maybe when you're done the lecture, you can bring me some soup?" He smiled up at Bill, and batted his stupid lashes.

Bill sighed. "Fine," he said. He obeyed.

He left Ford in the room with lots of water, Tylenol, and the phone number of the precinct on a note next to the phone.

"Don't be stupid," he said as Ford got back into bed. "Call me if you need anything. Call an ambulance if you feel worse."

"I'm okay, Bill," said Father Ford. "Go teach." 

\--

When Bill finished the lecture, he went to a deli and got soup. When he got to the motel, he was surprised to find it in perfect condition-- the beds made up, almost as if they were unslept in. 

"Such nice skin," Father Ford said from the bathroom. His voice was clear and rich and smooth, and he didn't sound sick at all. "And those hips. Thighs like a woman. It's indecent, really." 

"Holden?" Bill put the soup aside and stepped towards the bathroom. 

The door was open. Father Ford was fully clothed, in those black trousers and that tight black short-sleeved shirt, white clerical collar tight around his throat. He stared at himself in the mirror, a smug look on his face, and rubbed the obvious bulge between his legs. 

He caught Bill's gaze in the mirror. "There he is, Holden," he said. "Daddy's home."

"What the fuck?"

Father Ford turned to look at him.

All at once, it felt like Bill's insides turned out, and everything was burning cold. The Evil he had felt at the prison was back, and it was the same Evil he had met all those years ago, and it _knew him._

"Hey, Bill," said the Thing inside Holden Ford. "Bet you didn't think you'd see me again, huh?"


	2. I Signed my Life Away

Bill drew his sidearm.

"Oooh," said the Thing, in Father Ford's voice. "A gun. How delightfully phallic."

"Get the fuck out of him," said Bill.

The Thing made Ford smirk, eyes heavily lidded. "Yes, because that worked so well for you last time. Of course, you didn't fire, did you? It was that twerpy little fag. You couldn't save him. He did it to himself."

"Shut up." 

Not-Father Ford bit his lip, and ran his hands up his chest. "I liked him better in that long dress thing of his," he purred. "Swirling tails like a little girl's petticoats. No wonder your church is full of perverts, when you dress your clerics like that. Like little presents waiting to be unwrapped." 

Ford stepped forward until Bill's gun bumped against his chest. Bill's hands shook.

"But you like _this_ outfit better, don't you, Bill?" said the Thing. 

Bill could hardly breathe. "What is your name?" he demanded. 

"Don't pretend you don't know me." The Thing batted Ford's lashes at him. 

"Get out," Bill choked. "Get-- in the name of God, I command you to leave."

The Thing laughed. Ford's eyes were bright with joy. He covered his mouth in delight. "You're adorable, Bill," it said. "Never change." 

Bill finally managed to break free of the cold terror that had engulfed him. He holstered his sidearm, and punched Ford square in the face. While the Thing was cackling and licking blood of Ford's lips, Bill twisted him into a lock, and cuffed one of his wrists. 

"Oooh, getting kinky already!" The Thing gloated, while Bill grit his teeth and wrestled Father Ford onto the bed. He cuffed his arm to the headboard. 

The Thing cackled maniacally. "I knew you'd fall for it as soon as you got the chance. How long have you been wanting to do this to Holden, Bill? How long have you thought about tying him down and raping him? Probably since the day you saw him, you piece of shit." 

"Shut the fuck up," Bill snarled. He unzipped Father Ford's suitcase and started digging around. 

"I can feel it simmering in you from here." The Thing giggled. "I could feel it simmering in you from across the room in that stinking prison. I was thrilled to see you, Bill. I've been waiting so long."

Bill found Father Ford's mass kit. He wasn't called on to minister often when on the road, so his kit was small, but it had what Bill was looking for-- a small bottle of holy water, and three small vials of holy oil linked together. 

Father Ford sprawled out lazily on the bed. The Thing inside him smirked at Bill. "Getting lube? You don't have to bother. I think our Holden might like it raw." 

"Shut up!" Bill shouted.

The Thing laughed-- it was Ford's laugh, a rich-toned, refined sound, perverted by demonic, malicious glee. "I told you I'd have you again one day, Bill. You can fight it, but we're going to fuck just like old times. It's probably going to end the same way for poor Holden. But you-- you're not getting away from me again." 

Bill tried to figure out how to get the water inside Father Ford without choking him. He started muttering a feverish prayer, just to keep himself from stooping to the demon's level. "Hail Mary, full of grace," rapid fire whispering of the prayer he had to think the least about to remember.

The Thing inside Holden Ford pouted and grumbled. "Stop praying. I miss hearing you screaming to God, but not like that." He still drew back when Bill approached. "Don't fucking come near me with that putrid shit, Bill. I will pull his arm out of its socket and shove it straight up his ass. You know I can, don't test me." Father Ford started pulling violently at the wrist cuffed to the bedframe. 

Bill didn't give himself any time to think or second guess. He twisted open one of the vials, and smeared chrism over the top of Ford's head, the earthy scent of myrrh smothering the stench of fear and sweat. 

"Mnnrrggh!!" The Thing grunted, holding back a scream. Ford's face contorted like he was biting his own tongue.

Bill popped open the small bottle of holy water. A few drops on Ford's arms made him hiss, and the skin sizzled. Bill quickly poured some over his fingers, and shoved his fingers down Ford's throat.

The Thing screamed from deep inside Ford, sounding like a distant squeal. Ford fought, biting down hard on Bill's fingers, his throat spasming. He writhed under Bill, pulling at the cuff on the headboard, kicking uselessly. His free hand punched Bill in the side, hard enough to leave a bruise. It was the Thing's strength-- Bill wasn't sure Ford had ever punched anyone in his life.

Soon Ford was legitimately choking, and his eyes grew wide and scared. He went limp, and instead of punching, his free arm tugged at Bill's shirt.

Bill pulled his fingers out of Ford's throat. The priest leaned over and retched. It sounded like a dying cat. He threw up bile and a few clots of blood. The largest clot of blood wriggled, sprouted legs, and spread out like a giant fucking caterpillar. 

Bill flung it off the bed, stomped on it, poured holy water. The bloody caterpillar writhed and sizzled, and before Bill could do anything else, it scurried up the wall and into the vent.

"Fuck!" Bill screamed.

He turned back to the bed at the sound of Ford weeping.

"What is your name?" Bill demanded.

"Billllll," Ford whined.

"Hey." Bill softened his tone. He crouched down and wiped chrism-and-sweat-soaked hair out of Ford's face. "Tell me your name." 

"It's Holden," his pilgrim sobbed.

Bill sighed in relief.

"Bill..." Ford leaned forward and slumped into Bill's arms, nestling his face into the crook of his neck. "I think I fucked up." 

\--

Father Ford's bite on Bill's fingers had drawn blood. Bill washed them in cold water, and used rubbing alcohol from their paltry first aid kit. Bandaged them up.

He found some packets of salt in the desk, leftover from someone's takeaway meals. He spread the salt out around the bed the best he could. Only then did he uncuff Father Ford.

Ford slumped face first on the bed, sniffling. 

Bill got the pyx from Ford's mass kit-- a little container of the flesh of Christ, host wafers that were already fully consecrated. There were six hosts left. He crushed two. 

He sprinkled one into the soup, and another around the bed. 

"Eat this," he said, putting the container of soup in front of Ford.

Father Ford took the soup and stared down at it. He sipped, and winced.

"Was that thing-- was that it?" Bill gestured at the vent. A trail of blood led back to the bed.

"I don't think so," said Ford. "I think that was a familiar. Or a… a part of me."

"A _part of you_? Jesus, was it a vital part?"

"I don't know, Bill," Ford sighed. 

"How the hell did this happen?" Bill demanded, ignoring the little voice that was telling him he was just as much to blame as Ford.

Ford only shook his head. 

"Do you have your Roman Ritual?" Bill asked.

"We can't do an exorcism, Bill--"

Bill cut him off with an angry gesture, and went to the suitcase again. 

The Roman Ritual was a book of liturgies and sacraments performed outside of typical mass. Ford had anointed the sick a handful of times on the road, usually relatives of one of the parish cops, and had once performed last rites, but he usually didn't have call to use it.

So it sat on the bottom of the suitcase, spine unbroken, almost as good as new. 

It sat _underneath_ the Key of Solomon. Bill shoved that book aside. 

"Did it show you anything?" He asked, flipping through the pages of the Roman Ritual. "How do we-- we need to know its name, that's how we get rid of it, right? I asked, but--" 

"I know his name," Ford said miserably. "I always knew his name." 

Bill took a hard look at him. "What did you do, Holden?" 

Ford stared down at his soup.

Bill sighed heavily. Against his better judgment, he finally went and picked up the Key of Solomon. He flipped through the pages, and all the silly drawings and sigils. He knew instantly which one was the Thing because the page had been dog-eared, and drawn over in pencil, sentences underlined and numerous notes crowding the margins.

_Asmoday_, thirty-second in the ranks of hell, according to the Lesser Key of Solomon. A three-headed demon of wrath and lust, who rode around on dragons and was sometimes called the King of Shade. _Hates birds and water, because they remind him of God_, read one line, which Bill supposed explained the crow. 

_An enemy of the truth. Nemesis of archangel Raphael._ Raphael was a healer. Bill's patron was archangel Michael, the warrior, but it didn't matter. That's not why the Thing was after him.

"Holden," Bill said cautiously. "Are you seriously telling me that you conjured this fucking thing?" 

"I didn't mean to," Ford whimpered. "I didn't even believe in it. I was just… curious."

Bill bit his lip, and almost crushed the Key of Solomon in one hand. "You are so fucking arrogant, you know that?" 

Ford looked stricken. 

"You always do this," spat Bill. "I told you it was going to bite you in the ass one day." 

Ford's mouth dropped open. His breathing was shallow. "Bill, I…" he couldn't seem to get any other words out.

"And Kemper." Bill squeezed the book again. "He knew, Holden. He manipulated you. He set you up. And you fell for it."

Ford shook his head. "He didn't--"

"He knew you'd get obsessed, and try to invite a fucking _demon_ into your mind."

"He doesn't even believe in demons," Ford said. "Neither did I." 

"So fucking what? You were there to _learn_ from him, that's all he had to know. You could have compromised an investigation, or the study, because of this stupid fascination. If Grand Master Shephard found you with this book, he could have you excommunicated." 

"I really don't think Ed--"

"Ed!" Bill laughed in disbelief. "Do you think _Ed_ gave this to you because he's your _friend_?" 

Bill hurled the book against the wall with a loud SLAP. Ford flinched. 

"How the fuck am I supposed to protect you if you keep letting these fucking murderers get their hooks into you?" 

Father Ford trembled. His barely breathed at all. His eyes watered. "Maybe you should let him take me," he said shakily. 

Bill took a steadying breath. He gently stepped forward, and knelt by the bed. "I'm not going to do that, Holden." 

Ford wiped at his face. "When he comes back," he sniffled. "Try to-- can you at least ask him some things? Ask him what he's done, and why? And if there's any way he'd stop?"

Bill couldn't believe his ears. "You want me to interview a demon?" 

Ford blinked rapidly, and more tears fell. "Then maybe some good will come out of this."

"Nothing _good_ can come out of this," Bill said. "I'm getting rid of it."

"You can't perform an exorcism. You're not a priest, and even if you were, you need permission. You'd be excommunicated."

"I don't care," said Bill.

"I care," sobbed Ford. 

"Then I'll take you to a church," said Bill.

Ford shook his head, frantic. "They'd investigate how it happened. They'd investigate everything about us. The study would be shut down. You said it, Bill, I'd be excommunicated. I can't be. Please. I've never had anything in my life but the church. This study is the most important thing I've ever done. Please."

Bill sighed. "Kid--"

"I don't have any family," Ford sobbed. "My mother was unwed. I don't even know her name. The Dominican friars raised me. I novitiated to St. Augustine when I was fifteen. I'm nothing without the church. I'm nothing without this study. I'd rather die than lose it. Please, Bill." 

"Holden, it's not your death that I'm worried about." Bill steadied Ford's shaking hands in his own. "If we don't get rid of this thing, it will corrupt your soul, okay? It will consume you. Your death won't be a release, because you'll belong to _It._" 

"Then…" Ford breathed shakily. His shoulders trembled. He wept and wept. "Then just kill me, Bill. Kill me now, before he comes back."

Bill's blood went cold. He was twenty-two again, freezing in a trench in Korea, cradling the skinny body of sweet Daniel Graham. 

_Please just kill me, Bill,_ Daniel had begged. _Have mercy on my soul. Kill me now, before it comes back._

"No, Holden," Bill said firmly. "We're doing this. I'm getting rid of this thing. I don't care what happens to me, or how long it takes. I don't care about the study. I'll take the blame."

Father Ford trembled, and sniffled. "Why?" 

"Holden…" Bill was at a loss. "I don't know if you're asking because no one has ever said this, or maybe they said it too often and it doesn't have any meaning. But I _personally care_ about Holden Ford's soul."

Ford covered his face.

Bill pulled his pilgrim's arms away, and took his wet face in his hands. 

"I'm not letting some piece of shit blood worm take it," Bill hissed. "You got me?" 

Ford nodded. 

"Okay?" prodded Bill.

"Okay, Bill." 

Bill patted Ford's face gently. "Eat your soup," he said. "And pray. I'll be back as fast as I can."

Ford started mumbling a prayer as Bill patted down his jacket, making sure his wallet was still there. "Breathe in me, oh Lord, that all my thoughts may be holy. Act in me, oh Lord, that my work too may be holy." An Augustinian prayer that Bill had heard a million times before. He knew how it would end, with the confession of St. Augustine Ford said several times a day: _For You have made us for Yourself, oh Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You._

Bill couldn't help but scowl as he made sure the motel room door locked behind him. Holden Ford's _restless heart_ is exactly what got them into this.

\--

Bill showed his badge to the receptionist at the front desk, and told her he was commandeering the entire motel. She balked, but he said the whole place was a crime scene, and if she didn't want some extremely bad reviews from very disturbed guests, she'd get everyone out, and stay away from room 128. 

Then he ran to the five and dime down the street and stocked up. He got several lengths of rope, and some thick chain leashes that one might use on a large dog. He hoped they were iron. 

He got a huge stack of towels, and many rolls of duct tape. He got more rubbing alcohol and bandages. Some big buckets. One of those loofah sponges on a long stick.

Lots of sandwiches and snacks. Vitamins. Iron supplements. Several boxes of table salt. Canned food. Cigarettes. Three tins of Gatorade powder. He hoped it would be enough. Exorcisms could last days. Maybe even weeks. He had no idea. 

The lady at the check out counter gave him a wary look while she rang up his items, and his brusque behaviour with her probably didn't help. He knew that most serial murderers were smarter and calmer about putting their kill kits together, so as not to raise suspicions-- but _she_ probably didn't know that. She probably thought he was about to kill _her_. 

He showed her his badge so he could take away a shopping cart. He hadn't driven, because the store wasn't far, and because loading and unloading his car would have taken far too long. 

There was a liquor store between the five and dime and the motel. Bill tried to take the well-placed location of their motel as a sign from God, since they had a habit of staying in more remote, out of the way places. But there was no point in counting his chickens just yet. 

At the liquor store, he stocked up on beer and wine.

"Whoa, big haul. Must be some party you got planned!" the bearded liquor store clerk said. 

Bill said nothing, and slid over his charge card with a stronger shove than necessary.

The clerk noticed his shopping cart full of very weird supplies, and didn't ask any follow up questions.

He got to the motel parking lot with his fully laden shopping cart, panting. Guests were leaving, and the harried front desk clerk talked with the manager. They both gave Bill dirty looks. 

He went over to his car, and stashed his sidearm under one of the seats. He said an extra prayer that the Thing wouldn't find it. 

He saw a phonebooth. He called Sister Wendy, and told her what was going on. 

"What on earth?" He had never heard her so shocked or appalled.

"I don't know," said Bill, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"Are you sure it's not just stress?" she asked. "I know Father Ford has a way of--"

"It's not stress," said Bill. "It's real."

"How do you know?" Sister Wendy sounded like she was frowning. He could picture her face, as severe as the starched, ironed white cap and black veil she wore as part of her habit. "No offense, Bill, but you--" 

"I just-- Wendy. Please. It's real. You think I would say that if I didn't believe it?" 

She sighed.

"I need your help," he said.

"I don't know what I can do from here," she said. "You should take him to a hospital. Get a real diagnosis."

"It'll take them too long to get an exorcist," said Bill. "And if it gets out that he was-- Wendy, I think he conjured it."

"Oh, for God's sake," she hissed.

"Father Ford doesn't know I'm calling you, okay? It has to stay a secret. If Shepherd found out--" 

"Yes, I understand. Jesus, Bill." He heard her sigh. "So, what? Do you need me to pray?" 

He knew that she knew that they both thought prayer was useless. A formality. A way to make yourself feel better. 

But what else was there to do?

"Yeah," he said. "And, uh, do you have any other sisters that could…?"

"Yes," she said. "I'll call my order. They'll pray continuously until we tell them to stop."

"Continuously?"

"They do it in shifts, Bill."

"But you're not going to tell them…"

"I'll just tell them that Father Ford and Sir Tench need their urgent prayers."

"Okay. Thank you, Wendy."

"Do you have a phone in your motel room?" she asked. "Call me back when you're ready. I'll pray on the line. Strength in numbers. It couldn't hurt, right?"

Bill faltered. "Wendy, this Thing-- he-- _It_'s ruthless. It'll say anything about anyone to hurt them."

"Well, to be honest, I don't think my opinion of Father Ford could get much lower," said Sister Wendy.

A long pause.

"Bill," started Wendy, slowly. "Is there anything the demon could tell you about me that would make you respect me less?"

"No," said Bill, truthfully. He knew it all, anyway. They just never said it. 

"I feel the same way," she said. "We're a team. I've sacrificed a lot for the study, and I'm not going to let this jeopardize it. I know you won't, either. I believe in you." 

Bill nodded, not quite feeling it. "Thanks, Wendy. God bless."


	3. I'm Screaming Daisies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The exorcism starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The views of this demon do not reflect the views of the author.  
I'd say "please mind the tags" but I honestly don't even know how to tag some of this stuff. A lot of pretty gross things are mentioned, but don't actually happen. I think if you're a Mindhunter fan, it shouldn't be that disturbing, but let me know if I should add a tag!

Father Ford had showered and changed, and was putting on his white clerical collar when Bill arrived back at the room.

He wore his long black cassock now, not one of those little short-sleeved shirts. Bill steadfastly didn't wonder if he had heard what the Thing said, about which outfit Bill liked best.

The room was tidied. The sheets on Ford's bed had been changed, and the blood had been cleaned off the wall.

"You should've stayed in bed," said Bill.

"I couldn't stand the mess," Ford said glumly. "I had to get rid of it." 

Ford had unpacked his mass kit, transforming the small motel room desk into an altar. A bedsheet was draped across it as a linen, a small crucifix and an unlit candle stood upright in a stand. The pyx, chalice, and paten-- a small gold plate for the host-- sat out like a dinner place setting. The holy oils lay on the edge of the altar. 

He’d also put their suitcases away in the closet, and laid Bill’s Templar surcoat out on his bed. 

And the tape recorder was on Bill’s nightstand.

"Seriously?" asked Bill.

Ford shrugged. "It's worth a shot. Just... for posterity."

"I'm not going to share it with anyone," said Bill.

"I mean in case... in case I--"

"That's not going to happen. Okay?"

Ford looked down at his feet.

Bill left the shopping cart in the hallway, and brought in the buckets. Father Ford helped him fill all the buckets with water. They left them in the bathtub. 

"Okay, Padre," said Bill. "Time for some blood magic."

Ford scowled. He didn’t like it when Bill referred to the mass as blood magic, but Bill wasn’t the one guilty of actually messing around with dark magic lately, was he?

Bill took off his suit jacket, and put on his surcoat, the traditional garb of a Templar Knight. It was ceremonial, so he hardly ever wore it. He kept it in his suitcase for the unlikely event that required dress uniform. It was long, like Ford's cassock, and open in the sides. It was white, with a red cross adorned on the front. 

He'd never worn it privately with Ford before. It wouldn't have occurred to him to wear it at all if Ford hadn't taken it out for him.

Ford put on his silk stole-- green, for ordinary time, though tonight was anything but ordinary-- and said a short mass. 

Ford performed the rites of consecration on the remaining host. It was already consecrated, but another go couldn't hurt. He also consecrated all six bottles of wine that Bill had bought, transforming them into the blood of Christ.

Ford choked a little on the flesh of Christ, and had trouble keeping down his small sip of blood, but he didn't puke it up. Bill figured this meant the Thing was near, but not in charge. He wasn't concerned about the Thing's presence negating Ford's ability to bless items, since the blessing came from God, not from the priest.

"Here," he said right after the mass ended, and Ford started to look a little tired. He put the boxes of table salt on the altar, and had Ford bless them. Then he had him bless the buckets of water. 

Soon enough, Ford was pale and sweaty. He sat on the bed, his head in his hands, while Bill brought in more of the supplies from the shopping cart. 

Bill put a tight circle of holy salt around Ford's bed, and another circle around the edge of the room. It was to prevent the Thing from taking Ford's body off on a joy ride, and Bill sent up prayers that it wouldn't backfire and keep the Thing trapped inside the priest.

Bill piled the other supplies in a corner furthest from Ford's bed. He put the food and drinks in the closet, along with the motel's cups and mugs. He mixed up some Gatorade in tap water and made Ford drink it. He drank some himself, and took an iron pill. 

"All right, kemosabe," he said. "Let's get started."

Ford slumped on the bed, rosary in his hands. He nodded weakly. Bill helped his pilgrim lay down, and put the rosary around his neck.

Bill tied Ford's arms to the bed with rope, slack enough that the priest could sit up. Then Bill started tearing up strips of the towels he had bought. He wrapped them around Ford's wrists and ankles, to protect them from the chains.

Ford wasn't wearing his shoes. His old woolen socks looked so bizarrely human to Bill that he had to take a moment.

"Bill," Ford said.

"Yeah."

"Turn the tape recorder on."

Bill sighed heavily. "Holden…" He turned, and saw how very pale and shaky and ashen his pilgrim looked.

"Please," said Ford.

Bill went over to the other bed. Put a hand on the tape recorder. "This thing is going to throw everything it can at us," he said. "Stuff you might not even be aware of consciously." 

"No one's going to hear it unless I'm dead," said Ford. "So what do I care?" 

Bill hesitated. "I need you to fight this, Holden. I can't do this alone."

"I know. I'll do my best, Bill."

"But it already showed you something," said Bill. 

"I was just curious," said Ford. "The sin of Eve. That's all."

"What was it?" Bill asked.

Ford looked away. 

"I really think it's better if you tell me now," said Bill.

Father Ford looked up at him. His eyes were wide and bright, and his damp hair starting to curl. His cheeks were flushed. "It can't tempt me, Bill," he finally said. 

"Even Jesus was tempted," said Bill.

"The devil showed Jesus all the kingdoms of earth," said Ford. "It's what He wanted. It's what He was sent here to get. What I want…" he stared up at the ceiling. "It's never going to happen. So it doesn't matter. I can't be tempted." 

Bill sighed again. "All right," he obeyed. 

He turned on the tape recorder.

\--

The Thing showed up within an hour. Ford drifted into a feverish kind of sleep, while Bill finished tying him down with the chains. He tied his legs together, so he was in a Christ-like pose, and secured the chains to the legs of the bed. 

The Thing in Holden Ford started hissing slightly, and pulling at the chains uncomfortably. Bill hoped it was because they were really iron, and the Thing wasn't putting a show on for him.

He called Sister Wendy, and they came up with a plan. She was in her apartment, and would leave the line open. She would rest when she needed, and when Bill needed a rest, she'd stay on the line and pray. She already had Gregg cancel the rest of their bookings, and had been in touch with the local parish about Bill's commandeering of the motel. Covering it up with the community would be easy enough-- a crime had occurred, the FBI had jurisdiction, and everything was classified. 

Explaining it to Grand Master Shephard would be another thing, but they'd worry about that later. The risk of excommunication was still strong-- for studying occult material, for performing an unsanctioned exorcism-- but if it didn't go any further than the BSU, and the OPR never found out, maybe Shephard would have mercy on them.

Bill brought one of the buckets of holy water into the bedroom. He set out Ford's bible, and the Roman Ritual, open to the Rite of Exorcism, on the altar. He read aloud from the Rite, with Wendy responding on the phone. 

It started simply enough-- Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, etcetera, etcetera. Bill remembered what the army chaplains did. He used the loofah as a makeshift aspergillum, dunking it in the holy water and flinging it over the possessed body of Holden Ford.

By now the Thing was active again, making Ford writhe and moan in his bonds. His eyes were still closed, and he sweat through his cassock. He would hiss and arch off the bed when the holy water hit him. 

Bill called on all the saints listed in the ritual, and a few more as he remembered them. St. Michael. St. Raphael. St. Augustine. St. Ursula. _Pray for us._

Ford wiggled about in his bonds, and with his eyes closed, smiled a perverted little smile. "Here comes the good part," the Thing said in Ford's smooth, soft, beautiful voice.

"I command you, unclean spirit," Bill said forcefully, sprinkling more holy water. "Whoever you are, now attacking this servant of God, Holden Ford, by the mysteries of the incarnation--"

"Ohhhh Billlllll," Ford moaned, pulling at his bonds, humping up uselessly into the air. "Yesssss!"

"--By the coming of our Lord for judgement, that you tell me by some sign your name, and the day and hour of your departure."

"My name?" Ford's eyes were open, and the Thing stared at Bill with gleeful, malicious madness. 

Cold stupidity struck Bill silent.

"You know my name, Bill Tench," the Thing said, unblinking.

"I--" Bill swallowed. "I command you, Asmoday--"

The Thing laughed. It sounded like nothing more than a smug young man. "You know one of my names."

"I command you, moreover--"

"I am older and more powerful than you can comprehend," the Thing gloated, with an extra veneer of cold Ford arrogance.

"I command you to obey me to the letter, I who am a minister of God--"

"You wish."

"Tell me who you fucking are!" 

Ford's back arched. A cold rush of wind blew in from nowhere, disturbing the skirt of his elegant cassock. "I am Ashmedai, I am Osmodeus, I am Ornias, I am Orang Minyak! I was worshipped as Tlazōlteōtl, I was feared as Vanagandr; to simple shithead Speck I was Baykok, devourer of warriors!" 

The Thing screamed as loud as Ford could, and convulsed on the bed, stretching out words until his lungs were empty, _Baaaiiiieeeeeecoooooock._

"I am Šaklūn, I am Alecto, I am Aisha Qandisha! I am more than you can imagine, William dumbfuck Tench!"

"That's enough," barked Bill, splashing more holy water.

"I am Dzoavits!" the Thing kept screaming. "I am Tsuchigumo! I am Gaxi Sonnim!" It screamed the last with such perfect Korean pronunciation that Bill almost stumbled. "I was the lust that stole Ganymede from his father, I was the avarice that cast Oedipus from his cradle! I was the vengeance that hardened Pharaoh's heart, I was the envy and rage in the fists of CaaaaiiiIINNN."

Ford flopped back on the bed, panting, trembling all over.

"I cast you out--" Bill started, but Ford sat up as best as the bonds would allow him, looked Bill in the eye, and spat in his face. 

"I am the voice inside your head that tells you that you are sinful, and vile, and worth less than shit; I am that voice and I am riiiiiiiiiiiight!" 

The wind in the room knocked motel art off the walls, it knocked the candle off the desk. It lifted Ford almost entirely off the bed, stymied only by the bonds. 

The Thing screamed in a voice that was no longer Ford's, but so deep and devilish that it hurt something deep inside Bill's head. 

"I am kleśa-māra, I am krod-ha, I am aēšma-daēva, I am A-KA-MA-NAAAAAAAAH!" 

The wind dropped Ford on the bed. He didn't even moan or tremble now. He only whined something soft and heartbreaking.

"St. Augustine," Wendy prompted from the phone lying off the hook. She had to shout to be heard.

"Pray for us," Bill responded, weakly.

Ford sat up abruptly. "You have the gall to ask who I am," the Thing said, once again using Ford's refined, soft voice. "Who the fuck are you, Bill Tench?"

"All holy angels--" 

"This is stupid!" the Thing shouted. "You know this won't work. You know what I want. Give me what you promised me!" 

"I never promised you shit," said Bill.

The Thing held Ford down on the bed and made him writhe. Ford made a sound that Bill had only heard before in his most regrettable imaginings. "Oh, Bill, oh, fuck!" 

"Stop it!" Bill slapped more holy water at the Thing. "I cast you out! Begone and stay far!" 

"Big noble knight Bill," the Thing mocked, glaring at him with Ford's unfortunately expressive face. "Always riding in to save the day. Like you saved that sweet old lady in California, the one whose death you had to _wait on_ before you knew your ass from your elbow."

"Begone, in the name of the Father--" 

"And her little dog, too, slit from ear to ear."

"--And in the name of the Son--"

"How long do you think this is going to take, Bill?" The Thing grinned up at him in a gruesome parody of Ford's bright smile. "Moses died in view of the Holy Land, and I was the _bitter regret_ in his heart that he never reached it." 

"--By this sign of the holy cross--"

"Shut the fuck up!" the Thing cried. It made Ford pout at him. "Holden _invited me in_. I'm a guest. He wanted to ask me questions." 

Bill glared at it. "I don't want to hear it."

"But maybe I'll leave when we're done."

"You're a liar." 

The Thing laughed. "Yeah, you're right. You already know what I want. I want your big, thick, righteous cock inside me, and I won't leave until I get it." 

"I'm not giving you _anything_."

"We'll see," said the Thing. "But let's not sit here and quote scripture at each other all night, okay? It's boring. Ask me a question. I promised Holden I'd answer."

Sister Wendy shouted faintly down the phone line. "Don't engage with it, Bill." 

"Oooh is that _Wendy_?" the Thing purred. Ford's eyes were wide. It was like looking at a bizarro world version of Ford that wasn't quite so… repressed. "Sister Wendy Carr, as I live and breathe. You still sauntering around in those shapely habits of yours? Still giving all your students sinful nightly thoughts, you old rug muncher?" 

"Shut the fuck up," said Bill, already so, so tired.

"I love dykes," said the Thing. "It's not like women had it bad enough, huh, Bill? The way you treat dykes is…. aahh…" Ford's head fell back in a sensuous cry. He thrust his hips up. "It's so terribly oppressive. I especially love it when men like you rape them to _fix them_!" 

"You shut your goddamn--!" Bill hit him with a particularly big splat of holy water, making the Thing convulse and moan out wetly.

Sister Wendy shouted something on the line he couldn't make out.

"Shut up, you sanctimonious cunt!" The Thing cried. "Fuck! Women! Blah, blah, blah! Maybe if Sister Wendy had a good, hard, American cock in her gob instead of pussy all the time, she wouldn't be such a mouthy _bitch_, right, Bill?" 

The room was so, so cold, and there was an oppressive buzzing in Bill's head. The Thing switching tactics on Wendy had him reeling.

"Don't listen, Bill! It's trying to confuse you!" he thought he heard Wendy shout.

"Ah," Ford fell back down on the bed. "Can't stay mad at you, Sister. The thought of literally raping those lofty brains out of your head is what keeps me going." 

"Shut the fuck…!" Bill struggled to breathe. "If I ask you one of Holden's fucking questions, will you stop talking to her?" 

"Bill--" Sister Wendy tried.

"Shut _up_, Wendy!" the Thing spat. He looked at Bill with interest. "Yes. Sure. Pull up a chair, Bill. Please." It smiled sweetly with Ford's face.

Bill dragged over a chair, keeping it outside the ring of salt. He also brought over the crucifix from the mass kit. 

"What have you done?" he asked. 

The Thing barked a laugh. "Well that's a big question. You'd be long dead by the time I stopped talking. It's not very good methodology, wouldn't you agree, Sister Wendy?" 

"You don't talk to her," Bill said. "You talk to me." 

"Ooh," the Thing licked Ford's lips slowly. "There's the Bill I remember. Assertive. Commanding." 

"What is your… what's your MO?" asked Bill. He had the holy water close by, the loofah stick still firmly in one hand, crucifix in the other. 

The Thing grinned. "It depends on how I feel," he said. "But usually I just want to hurt humans."

"Why?"

"Because I hate them," it said, matter of factly. "Hold on, Bill. Do you idiots think some of your murderers have more sophistcated motives than hate?" It laughed. "You're interviewing a bunch of men who kill women and you think the answer is anything other than they hate women? Or the ones who kill fags? Men hate women. Men hate fags. Men hate themselves, and everyone hates men. You're dirt people. You're made out of dirt, and you're stupid. All you can do is hate." 

"We're not here to talk about my work," Bill said firmly.

"Fine, Bill." Ford smiled sweetly. "I'll tell you what I've done." 

It occurred to Bill that the Thing could be lying about literally anything, including the names it gave, and any stories it might tell. So there was no point in trying to find any internal logic or consistency in what it might say.

"You know some of my more recent work," the Thing purred. "Speck, obviously. And your sweet Danny Graham."

Bill manfully put Daniel out of his mind. "What did you do with Speck?"

"Nothing he didn't already want," said the Thing. "Sometimes I just like to go along for the ride. And then prison was fun. Those fucking birds, though." Ford rolled his eyes like a teenager.

"You made Speck kill those nurses?" 

"No," the Thing spat. "Fuck's sake, Bill, _listen_. Speck was bound to do something like that eventually. I saw an opportunity for fun, so I hopped in."

"So you're saying Speck would have killed those nurses even if you weren't there?"

The Thing seemed thoughtful. "Maybe he'd have killed a few less," it said. "And _I_ wanted to rape more. But Speck was… harder to drive. Brain like Swiss cheese. Not like Holden." Ford stretched luxuriously, as far as the bonds would allow him. "He's got such a beautiful mind, Bill. So expansive. Always growing. I'm gonna have real fun tearing it apart."

Bill thrust the crucifix in Ford's face. The Thing withdrew as far as it could, a guttural groan rising in Ford's throat. 

"You leave him the fuck alone," said Bill. "Tell me what else you've done." 

The Thing cackled, even as Ford panted and screwed his eyes shut in pain. "I possesssed a naughty little priest in Loudun and had a whole convent. So many virgins and clit-lickers, all mine for the taking. Turned 'em alllll into witchesssss." 

Ford looked up, gasped at the sight of the crucifix, and screwed his eyes shut again. 

"I ate King Solomon's faaaaaaavourite little twink," said the Thing. "And usurped the king's position for 40 whole days. That was fun. Ooh, I told John List he had to murder his family to save them. I'm particularly proud of that one." 

"John List?" Bill remembered that case. A family slaughtered, the suspect father never located. "Where is he?" 

"Like I'll tell you," the Thing muttered. "Probably indoctrinating a whole new family." It suddenly dissolved into a fit of giggles. "The funny thing is that he never had to worry about his family's souls. _He_ created their suffering. And he's so certain of his righteousness, but I've already made sure he's daaaaaaaaaamned. He'll never see his family agaaaaaaaaaain!" Ford started writhing. 

Bill stood, holding out the crucifix, and plunged his stick into the holy water. "I'm not here to listen to your ramblings," he said. "Why Holden?" 

The Thing moaned. "He calllllled for me," it gloated. "So _curious_. I love curiosity. I've crushed soooooo many curious little kittens under my heel. Have you ever heard a kitten's bones crushing, Bill? Some perverts get off on it." 

"That's it? He conjured you, and that's all it took?" 

"He conjured me, and I saw _you_," the Thing said. "Then I had to wait for _you_ to come to _me_." 

"So you didn't want Holden? You only want me."

"Ooh, that one hurts," said the Thing. "He felt that. No, no, Bill, it's not all about _you_. Holden's a virgin. Didn't you know? A _real_ virgin. Never been kissed. The friars didn't even touch him, and _they_ touched _everyone_. Oh, you assumed he broke his vows like everyone else? Maybe with that witchy little girlfriend of his?" 

Bill had met Sister Debbie, a Vincentian novitiate, and-- yes. He thought they were in the same kind of "friendship" that a lot of very young priests and nuns indulged in, one that sometimes resulted in them giving up the cloth. It happened all the time, especially among Vincentians, who made annual vows instead of permanent ones.

"Debbie's a slut, but no, she only touched his soul," said the Thing. "Read his cards. Read his leaves. Gave him witchy herbs and potions." 

_What the hell have you been getting up to, kid?_ Bill thought. Then he remembered the tape recorder-- if this got out, it wouldn't just be the entire BSU excommunicated. Sister Debbie could be ejected from her order. A demon lies. 

But at the same time, Bill wouldn't put it past Ford and Debbie.

"Holden's not interested in girls," drawled the Thing. "Like you had no idea. Like you couldn't _smell_ it on him."

"Shut up," Bill half-heartedly splashed holy water on the Thing.

"Holden was _so_ curious, _so_ eager to let anything into his soul, since nobody ever wanted to touch his _bodddyyyyy_. The friars went through those boys as fast as they could get them, but they never touched Holden. And he always wondered why. Isn't that just shaaaaaameful, Bill?"

"All holy saints of God," Bill tried to go back to the rite, continuously splashing Ford with the holy water. All through, the Thing just kept yammering.

"To see other children terribly abused and think, why not me, why aren't I good enough for some pervert to put his hands on? What a horrific, disgusting thing to think. To be _envious_ of someone else's suffering. But, ah--" the Thing made Ford smile creepily. "Suffering is what ensures you heaven, isn't it? If he wasn't chosen to suffer, then God didn't love him. Fuck, you're all so fucking _stupid_!"

Bill kept praying.

"Allllll his life Holden wondered why no one has wanted him," Ford sing-songed. "The best virgin of all is a pathetic one. I'm not interested in pious, pretty girls who turn up their noses, I'm not interested in beautiful young people who have the world at their feet, I'm not interested in the fucking stick-up-their-ass _Wendy Carrs_ of the world. I like fleshy, delicious, sad virgins who think nobody could ever want them."

Bill kept praying.

"So he joins the order at 15," the Thing grinned. "And he thinks he's clever enough to outsmart his own self-hate, like he's _choosing_ a life of celibacy. But he knows, deep down, that it doesn't make a difference. Withered old priests who'd stick their shrivelled limp dicks into any boy they saw didn't want to touch him, why the fuck would anyone else? But I do. I want to touch him. So do you, Bill." 

Bill kept praying.

"They hurt him, of course," the Thing said, matter of factly. "The friars. They whipped him and beat him. Taught him how to cut himself. You'll see the scars, when you fuck him. _Mortification of the flesh,_ the church calls it. You're all so fucking stupid. God gave you beautiful bodies capable of such pleasure, and you think it has to be punished for existing. I haaate you, I haaaatee _yoooouuuu_ Bill Tench I want you I want you I want you--" 

Father Ford went limp. 

The Thing was quiet for a while, and Bill didn't take it as any kind of sign. He just. Kept. Praying. 

Father Ford lay still, twitching occasionally. 

"MmmmmMMM," the Thing suddenly moaned. "Holden hates himself so very, very much. He's got such devils already. Such a busy brain. Always chattering away. So much anxiety." It made an ugly face, and twisted Ford's beautiful voice into a derisive falsetto. "Why doesn't anyone liiiiike me," it mocked. "Why aren't I bettterrrr at my jobbb, why does no one seeeeee meee, wwhhYYY does Shephard hhaaaAAAAATE me, why does Billlll HAAAAATE ME!" Ford writhed and shook his head back and forth hard, spittle flying.

"I don't hate Holden," Bill said, against his better judgment. It was pointless to argue with a demon, but he also knew Father Ford could hear him, and if Father Ford thought it was true then he might not fight as hard. 

"You _do_!" the Thing screeched. "You hateful, violent, infertile nothing of a man! You think he doesn't see it? You think he didn't notice every time _yoooouuuu_ dismissed him? Every demeaning word, every little cruelty, do you think this bug-eyed weirdo didn't _hear it all_?" 

“I didn’t--” Bill bit his lip, and splashed more holy water, and went back to his prayers. 

The Thing flinched back, and made a sound like it'd just banged its elbow but was also laughing. "You want to fuck him but you hate him. How very confusing for you."

Bill kept praying. 

“Men always hate what they want to fuck,” said the Thing. “That’s why it’s so easy to use you to kill women. And fags. And _children_.” 

Bill swung the loofah hard, splattering Father Ford with water. The Thing inside him hissed-laughed, smiling widely, an imitation of someone getting off on pain. 

“The big fucker upstairs really knew what he was doing when he made you idiots, didn’t he,” the Thing sneered. “Buncha hormonal apes wandering the earth, raping everything in sight. And _you_ Bill Tench." He sneered, his eyes gleaming so hot Bill could almost feel it. "You walk around like you're not just as bad as the rest." 

"We beg You to hear us," Bill cried to God. "That You spare us. That You pardon us. That You bring us to true penance." 

"He can't fucking hear you!" the Thing screamed. "You made too much of a mess. You disgust him." 

"That You humble the enemies of the holy church," Bill prayed frantically, working his way down the rite. 

"Humble!" the Thing scoffed. "Your precious holy church has created so much suffering in the world, and it's so, so fucking delicious. I go out and find miserable, lonely souls, thick on the ground, ripe for the plucking. Holden is a perfect blend of spiritually miserable and physically pure. Like a fiiiiiine wiiiiiiiine." He writhed in an obscene sexual display. 

Bill prayed.

"I'm going to gnaw at this soul until it's nothing but dust," the Thing proclaimed. "It's going to take _days_. MmMMMM! Virgins are fun to eat because everyone thinks they're purer. _How could this happen_, they always say. Children are the best because it hurts everyone the most. I eat their souls and shit them out in helllll, and they belong to me foreverrrRRRRR. I'll eat Holden and shit him out too, just like I ate Daniel Graham!" 

Bill dunked the aspergillum and hurled a gob of holy water at Father Ford so hard it left a red mark on his face. His skin sizzled and he howled in pain.

"You shut the fuck up about Daniel!" he shouted. "You didn't get his soul!"

"Oh, didn't I?" the Thing mocked, grinning up at Bill even as Ford's skin sizzled. It went red, and started to heal at a superhuman rate. "Suicide's a siiiiiinnnn, according to _your_ Pope. I bet you took it as face value. It's not in the Bible. Jesus says _fuck all_ about it! It's the catechism that teaches it! You stupid fucks think you have free will, but you can't even decide the hour of your death! You just have to suffer and suffer and suffer and _hope_ that God is pleased by it! And that's _your choice!_" 

Bill prayed fervently, and sprinkled holy water. Ford got frothy again, yanking at his bonds, spasming on the bed, arching his back to an almost unnatural point.

"I have endured forever!" the Thing screamed. "I will be here long after you have burned this world down! You asked the hour of my departure, and I say it will be whenever _the fuck I want!_ I'm going to devOOURRrr himmmm while you fucking _watch_. His self hatred is soooo gooood. He thinks he's not worthy of the love of God or anyone else and he's _riiiiight_! WE were the first born. This world is OUR birth right! You stooolle it!" That voice was guttural now, deep and disturbing and nowhere near Ford's soothing tones. 

He started making frantic noises. Bill had heard enough tapes in rewind to recognize backwards talking. 

Bill kept praying. Kept sprinkling water. Kept shaking, and blinking back tears, and trying not to let guilt crush him. 

After at least an hour of Father Ford being held in what Bill could only describe as a stress position, backwards talking, and sweating completely through his clothes, he collapsed into an exhausted pile.

An exhausted pile looked plenty good to Bill. Even the tape recorder had run out.

But the Thing wasn't exhausted. "Keep praying, Bill," it gloated, cheerfully. "I'm not leaving until you fuck me. You know you want it. There's one letter between pray and prey, after all, you piece of shit. You fucking murderer. You fucking rapist. You know what I'm going to do?" 

"You're gonna eat his soul," Bill shot back.

The Thing grinned, delighted. "I can keep this up all night," it said. "You can't. You're weak, just like the rest of your shit-for-brains species. I'm gonna gnaw at his precious, stupid little soul until you finally give in and fuck him. And when you're finally fucked out, and Holden's soul is withered and gone, and you're so _disgusted_ by what you've done, I'm going to finally take you. I'll make you kill him. You'll be mine."

"Shut the fuck up!" 

"Yessss," the Thing shivered. "Such beautiful rage. I'm going to glory in it. I'm going to kill Wendy the dyke, and witchy little Debbie, and that bitch of a wife, and your retard son." 

Bill prayed.

Ford spasmed again, the Thing laughing inside him. "I'm going to slap that little brat around until his brains drip out. He's not even going to be surprised. He already knows Daddy hates him. He just doesn't know _why_." 

Bill closed his eyes and prayed.

"Look at me, Bill," said the Thing. 

Bill kept his eyes closed, and prayed. 

"_Look at me, Brian!_" the Thing bellowed in Bill's own voice. 

Bill looked up in shock. Ford stared at him with fiery intensity. 

"Yeah, just like that," the Thing said in Ford's sweet voice. "I'm gonna grab his chin and yank it up and force him to look at me, like you've done a thousand times. I'm gonna get off on his frantic little heartbeat. I'm gonna tell him that Daddy hates him because he's not really Daddy's son. And then… actually, maybe I'll let him live. Just abandon him with his bitch of a mother dead on the floor."

For a moment Bill couldn't hear. It was just fuzz. The sides of his vision went white.

"Then you and me are going on a _real_ killing spree," said the Thing. "It'll make Korea look like a day at the beach. We'll kill so many people. And God won't be able to do a damn thing, because he _isn't fucking here_." 

Bill left the room. The Thing cackled madly behind him.

\--

Bill broke down the door of another room. He punched a hole in the wall.

Then he sat on the bed in utter blank-minded shock for he didn't know how long.

When he was ready to think again, he decided that he should probably take a real break, not a stress-induced one. Even God rested on the seventh day, after all.

And what was a day to God, anyway? Maybe He was still resting. Ten thousand years of human suffering, and God only stirred once to go make His son clean up his shit. 

In the room, he could hear Sister Wendy praying rapidly over the phone. Father Ford writhed uncomfortably on the bed. 

"Hey, Bill," said the Thing. "Come over here. Jizz on my face." 

Bill ignored him. He got a sandwich, and some cigarettes, and a beer. He went on the balcony. He broke his vows by eating alone, but he couldn't sit on Ford's bed and try to feed him like this. He was beyond breaking vows at this point. 

_One vow broken, what's the point of keeping the others?_ he thought. 

For the first time in a long time, Bill felt truly scared. As soon as he acknowledged it, he trembled, and his eyes got wet. He could still hear the Thing cackling and shouting through the glass door. He trembled harder.

"Fuck's sake," he thought. He wiped his eyes angrily. "It's not going to win," he told himself. "It's not going to win again." 

But he knew, deep down, it already won.

Bill thought he'd been forgiven for Daniel Graham. He thought his vows would somehow make up for it. He'd saved lives. He was saving more just through the study.

But Bill was starting to question. And Bill was starting to doubt.


	4. There's a Greedy Fly in Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The exorcism continues.

When Bill returned to the room, he couldn't wake his pilgrim. Father Ford slept on fitfully. 

Sister Wendy told Bill to put some water on a rag and see if Ford would swallow some that way. Then she went to sleep-- they'd been at it for hours, and Bill was outside by himself for a long time. Wendy said she'd come back on the line in the morning, and Bill could nap then. It was fine, because he was too keyed up to sleep.

Ford suckled a little at the rag. Bill opened a window.

He wiped sweat off Ford's face. He checked his pilgrim's wrists and ankles. Despite the towels he used for protection, they started to rub raw. He cleaned them, and wrapped them in new strips.

He noticed Ford was awake, and staring at him.

"You're gorgeous," said the Thing inside Holden Ford. "You've somehow gotten better with age."

Bill sighed, and got off the bed. He went back to reciting the rite and brandishing the crucifix.

The Thing just watched him with a pleased little smile. "Holden had another question for me," it said.

"Shut up," said Bill.

"Come onnnn," whined the Thing. 

"I already know the answer," said Bill. Ford's other question was _how can it be stopped._

"Ugh." The Thing pouted. "Sir Tench, the FBI's knight in shining armour, already has all the answers. I hate that. I fucking hate that attitude. You're so paternalistic. Holden's not like that. He's beautifully curious. So intelligent. Just like Eve. The original sin. The sin of _woman_. He's got a backside like a woman, too." The Thing rubbed Ford's thighs together as much he could with bound legs. "Such a shame that he's a virgin. Should have been fucked to madness long before I got here. Hey, Bill. Why didn't Adam just slap Eve around a bit? Then you wouldn't be in this mess." 

Bill kept praying.

"That's why you all hate women so much. You blame them for all your suffering. So juvenile. You should blame Adam for not keeping her in check. The primordial man couldn't even be man enough for you idiots. How often do you slap Nancy around, Bill?" 

Bill's mouth twitched. He kept praying.

"Oh, you _don't_," scoffed the Thing. "So righteous. So noble. Like you haven't thought about it. Like you don't think about it _ all the time_, same way you think about slapping around your idiot son. That's how it was in the good old days, right, Bill? That's what your old man did to you. And his old man did to him. All the way back for millennia. That's just the way men are. You like to hurt the people who depend on you."

Bill prayed. 

"_The resentment builds,_" said the Thing, in Bill's own voice. "_A thousand tiny cuts._" 

Bill stumbled a bit in his prayer.

"William Tench," the Thing drawled. "Sworn to protect pilgrims. Has to drink to stop himself from hitting his annoying little wife. You couldn't protect a sand castle." 

Bill swallowed hard. He prayed. 

Father Ford lay back and glared at Bill hard, hatefully, unblinking, for a very long time. 

Eventually he dropped his head back and started writhing again. "Holden wanted to be taught, when he summoned me," said the Thing. "He's too intelligent to be left to his own devices, Bill. He's like a very smart dog. He has to be carefully watched. He has to be crated. Bet you'd like that, huh, you fucking pervert?" 

Bill prayed.

"What should I teach him first? I've been summoned by curious boys before, to tell them about hell. To tell them what hell feels like. Curious, masochistic boys who didn't know what they were getting into. Do you know what hell feels like, Bill?" 

Bill grit his teeth, and kept fucking praying.

"Hell is how it feels when when a little girl's daddy rapes her, and nobody believes her, and they all call her a liar and a whore," said the Thing, with an air of calm amusement. "It's that feeling, every single second, for eternity. And all your beloved childhood pets are there, and you just keep _stepping on them_. Should I show him what it feels like? It's even worse than you think." 

Father Ford went limp, and started seizing. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he muttered hatefully in a language Bill couldn't understand.

Bill wavered a bit. Crept closer. Guilt settled in. Did time pass the same for Father Ford? Could he shake him out of it? But he remembered Daniel Graham, and the army chaplains, and all he could do was keep praying, and follow the rite. 

After some time, Father Ford went still, and seemed to be sleeping. 

Some time after that, when Bill had read through the entire rite and started again, Ford began grunting and gasping. 

Bill looked up from the Roman Ritual. Ford's rosary wrapped tight around his throat, pulled by invisible hands.

"Jesus Christ," Bill muttered. At this point, continuously whispering prayers was second nature, and he prayed while he wrestled with the beads tight against Ford's throat. He finally broke the rosary with a SNAP!

Beads flew everywhere. Father Ford gasped and choked, eyes flying open.

"Bill!" he cried. 

"Holden." Bill sighed in relief. He put a hand on Ford's cheek. "Are you all right?" 

Father Ford turned his head and sucked Bill's thumb into his mouth.

Bill pulled back as if he was burned.

The Thing laughed cheerfully. "You taste good," it purred. "Do you know how long he's thought about your fingers inside him? Your hand on his throat?" Ford gazed up at Bill, mouth agape, eyes half closed. He moaned sensually, and licked his lips, and started choking again. 

This time it was his clerical collar squeezing at his throat.

"Fuck," Bill huffed. He tore the collar out of Ford's shirt. 

"Ooh," the Thing breathed. "Finally gonna take advantage of all this bondage and undress him, huh? You lasted longer than I thought you would, Bill."

"Shut up." 

"Fine, I'll do it myself." Father Ford lifted his hips off the bed, and the skirts of his elegant cassock fell aside. His belt started unwinding by itself.

Bill tried to grab the belt and stop Ford's humiliation. He found his hand gripped in an unseen force, pulling him forward. 

"Mmmm, yessss," moaned the Thing.

It made Bill run his hand over Ford's hard cock. Made him squeeze it. 

"Jesus!" Bill cried. "Let go! I command you, in Christ's name, let me go!" 

Finally, with a laugh, the Thing released him, flinging him across the room. Bill landed with a thump on his own bed. The belt flew after him, whipping him hard in the face before falling to the ground.

The cold wind was back in the room. Ford levitated off the bed, as far as the chains allowed. The wind tore his clothes to shreds, even his briefs and socks. He was left completely nude, except for his devotional scapular.

"Mmm," purred the Thing. "Isn't he something else? So fleshy. So shapely. Just like a ripe woman. He's going to puff up one day if he doesn't watch himself. Get real fat." The Thing laughed. "He's embarrassed. He never wanted you to see him naked. I mean, he _did_, but he hated that he wanted it, and he was afraid of it actually happening. He's so delightfully ashamed of himself."

Ford had as many scars on his chest as Bill expected on someone raised by friars. He certainly didn't have as many as Bill did. 

What really got Bill's attention were the scars on his pilgrim's thighs. 

The Thing grinned. "That's right. This is what your fucking church does. It tells God's beautiful boys and girls that their earthly desires are _sinful_ and must be _punished_, and then they turn around and act so shocked when one of their flock goes for the razor. Fucking _hypocrites_!" Ford suddenly surged in his bonds, frothing at the mouth, levitating off the bed. 

Just as suddenly, the Thing calmed again, and let Ford settle gently on the bed.

"Every sinful urge he had, Holden cut himself, right near from where the sin came," the Thing grinned. "He didn't have the courage for the real deal. _If your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out_! Stilllllllll. Aren't they beautiful scars? For a God he doesn't even really believe in. He hates himself for literally no reason. It's gorgeous. He hasn't cut himself for years, unfortunately. You wanna know what he does now? It's the scapular." 

The devotional scapular was a small, scratchy woollen square on Ford's chest, and another would be on his back, held in place by two straps over his shoulders, like a necklace. 

Devotional scapulars were traditionally worn under the clothing. Living in such close quarters, Bill should still have known his pilgrim wore one, when he was in his pyjamas. He had somehow never noticed. 

It was a brown scapular. It was embroidered: _Whosoever dies wearing this scapular shall not suffer eternal fire._

Bill couldn't move off his bed. He was frozen there. Held down by the demon, he told himself. 

"He's soooo logical," purred the Thing. "But about one thing, he's very superstitious. He barely believes in God, but he's a priest. He wants to understand the most vile of murderers, but he's terrified of going to hell for imagining _your_ disgusting old flesh bag in the shower. You humans are so stupid and confused. Fuck, you're all so _fucking annoying_!" 

Bill managed to swallow. Managed to slowly stand. He wasn't entirely sure if it was his own volition, or the Thing moving him.

The sun was starting to rise.

"He wore the scapular today because he's certain he's going to die," gloated the Thing. "And he's right. Because you're going to fuck him, and then you're going to kill him. He wore it because he doesn't want to go to hell. But he will, because I'm going to eat him, and shit him out down there. He won't be wearing it when he dies, anyway. I'm gonna show you what he does with it."

One of the straps of the scapular broke, and the Thing's unseen hand slowly wound it around Ford's chest. It rubbed up against his nipples, and he shuddered and whimpered pornographically. Even with his ankles bound together, it wound between his legs, and tied tight across one pale, thick, naked thigh, like a garter, chafing against the scars. A makeshift thigh cilice. A modern day hair shirt. 

The Thing moaned obscenely. Ford's bound thighs rubbed against each other. His hard cock twitched and leaked.

Bill could not stop staring.

"Ooohhhhh," the Thing breathed. "He's so humiliated. Bill, he's crying. Oooh, you should feel it. Little--" Ford gasped and spasmed. "Pangs of fear and shame. Little darts of pleasure all up the spine. Fuck. This is something else!" 

_Stop it,_ Bill thought. He felt so tired, so weak. He couldn't open his mouth. He couldn't even try. 

"Do you know what happens when a human goes without a kind touch?" taunted the Thing. "For so many, many years? It makes your soul withdraw. It makes your soul easier for mmmmmeeeEEEE to rreeaAAACCHhhh." Ford choked on his spittle, and spasmed on the bed. "Holden hasn't been touched since he was a child, and even then it was only for punishment. Nothing more than a handshake in church. _Peace be with youuuuu_," it barked out a laugh. "There's no peace in here, Bill! You couldn't get your head out of your ass and give him a hug every now and then?" 

Bill swallowed. He tried to open his mouth to pray, to command, but it was frozen shut. Unseen pressure kept his fists at his side, even as the wind in the room rubbed up against his crotch, trying to make him hard. 

He saw-- either by his own memory, or the Thing forcing it into his head-- every time Ford had looked over at him in the car, or from across a diner booth, or on the couch in Shephard's office. Every time Ford had been chewed out, or realized he'd offended someone, or any of the other countless fuckups he pulled off. How he'd lay neatly on his bed, turned away from Bill, blankets barely disturbed. 

How deflated he always looked. How lonely. 

"He sees eeeevvvvverrrythiinngg," the Thing slurred. Ford moved restlessly against his bonds. "He sees every dirty look you give him. You think that doesn't hurt? Such a sensitive soul. That's why he tastes so nice. And if _you_ won't eat him, I will." 

Father Ford's eyes rolled, and he seized again. He moaned a mumbly, visceral, inhuman moan. Drool poured out of his mouth, and his cock leaked. 

"Soooooo good," the Thing hissed inside him.

It was gnawing on his fucking soul. Eating Father Ford from the inside out. And Bill, held down by the wind in the room or his own fucking uselessness, was powerless to stop it.

"MMMmmm," the Thing moaned messily. Drool covered Ford's face. "He tastes better than Danny did. Danny was stupid. Corn-fed middle American _barf_." Ford tossed fitfully on the bed. "Holden is _interesting_. You should see his brain. It would make you blush, Bill. Stand-up man like yourself. A wife you hate, a child you can't stand."

Bill struggled to move his mouth. He finally pried it open. "Shut up," he spat out. "Shut up about Daniel."

The Thing only giggled. It sounded like some perverted version of Ford, one that wasn't weighed down by sin and responsibility, one who could find delight in the world. "Poor sweet Daniel Graham," it sing-songed. "He loved you so much. He thought you loved him. He couldn't live without you, Bill. But you, you fucking coward. You ran home and married the first girl who'd ever looked at you, just so very _afraid_ the world would find your sin."

It used Ford's smooth, silky voice. It used Ford's voice for all the worst things. 

"You should've taken the cloth, Bill," the Thing drawled. "Plenty of fags in the order, after all. Plenty of boys for you to prey on." 

"Shut up!" Bill fought harder against the force holding him down. He managed to grab his aspergillum and hurl holy water over Ford's naked body. "Shut the fuck up and go!" 

Ford tossed and squealed. His skin sizzled. "OoohhhhHHH!" the Thing moaned. "Bill, it hurts! It hurts him so much, but it feels _so gooooood_. Untie me, Bill, come on."

"Depart, unclean spirit!" Bill found the crucifix and brandished it.

The Thing hissed. "Come on, Bill, this isn't fair. Untie me or fuck me, you can't just leave me like this!"

Bill found his place in the rite and started praying again.

The Thing groaned in mundane frustration. "Ugh, fine. This is on your head, though." 

The scapular unwound from Ford's thigh. Then it wrapped tightly around Ford's throbbing cock. It looked like it hurt. 

Ford moaned, long, higher pitched than usual. He writhed and tossed against his bonds, his face contorted in pain. The scapular tightened around his red, hard, leaking cock. 

"Fuck!" Bill dropped the crucifix and aspergillum and-- 

He stopped at the ring of salt. Clenched his fists. Closed his eyes.

"Billll," the Thing cried in Ford's voice. The priest looked like he was in absolutely agony. "Please!"

Bill clenched his teeth. He reached for Ford's young, throbbing manhood, and tried to untie the scapular.

"YYYYEEEEEssssss," the Thing moaned and hissed, thrusting up into Bill's hands. "Bill, yes, yes!"

"Shut up," he muttered. It was hard to get any kind of grip on the thin straps of the scapular without also touching Ford's dick, or somehow pulling it tighter.

"Ohhh," the Thing cried. "Fuck me, Bill, please!" Ford tossed his head, his hair sweaty and curling. His cheeks were flushed. He gazed up at Bill from under long lashes and said it exactly the way Bill always imagined Ford would say it. "Please fuck me, Bill." 

Bill finally untied the scapular and cast it into a corner of the room. 

"You fucking asshole!" the Thing raged. "I _promise!_ I vow that you will _fuck me_ before we're done, Bill! I don't care about your cunting vows. I _want_ you, Bill, I want that delicious, righteous cock, and I want your delicious, righteous soul, and I want to drag you to hell where you belong. You're _mine_ and you _always have been!"_

Ford arched into the stress position, backwards talking frantically. 

"So what," Bill shot back, casting more holy water. "You're jealous of Holden?" 

Ford collapsed on the bed, and the Thing laughed uproariously. It grinned, licking at Ford's lips like a lizard. "Why would I be jealous of such a pathetic little twerp?" It stared at Bill shrewdly. "Your words, Bill. The words he always hears."

"No," said Bill. "I've never called him anything like that." 

"Dipshit," the Thing shot back. "Pain in the ass. _Arrogant_." 

"I adjure you, every unclean spirit!" Bill shouted. "Every spectre from hell, every Satanic power, in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, who has led you into the desert after His baptism to vanquish you in your citadel, to cease your assaults against this creature whom God has formed!" 

Ford gave him an unimpressed look. "That was poetic," the Thing said, drily.

"Yield to God!" shouted Bill, flinging more holy water.

Ford hissed, and glared, and it was a dark, baleful thing, unlike any dirty look Bill had ever seen Ford cast. "He's getting fucked either way, Bill," the Thing declared. 

It knocked Bill over again with that unseen force. The cold wind dragged Bill across the room, slammed him up against the door, arms splayed, in a parody of a Christ pose. It held him with such force he could barely breathe.

The ropes binding Ford's arms and legs loosened, and fell away. 

The Thing screamed and railed, and Ford kicked violently against the chains around his ankles. The cold wind rushed faster, and Bill's eyes watered. 

Some of the links in the chain broke, and Ford's legs spread obscenely wide. 

"How shall I take him, Bill?" the Thing growled, a beastly, visceral sound reverberating around the room. It tickled at the back of Bill's brain. The windows grew crusty with frost. 

"What shall I show him?" the Thing rumbled. "Shall I use one of his fantasies of you? Should I show him what those friars did with all those boys? Oh, shall I show him how Danny Graham felt when we were together? When you held him down and fucked him and didn't even realize it was me inside?" 

Bill struggled against the force holding him back, tried to scream and kick. He couldn't make the barest sound. 

Ford collapsed flat on his back, his legs spread wide, his ankles in the air. Bill could see his backside, could see the dark little hole between his round cheeks. 

"I'll leave him a virgin for you," whispered the Thing. "Physically, anyway. You deserve a tight hole. I'll just fuck him from the inside." 

The cold wind rushed about the room. Ford shivered, and started pulling at the chains on his arms. 

"Bill," he sobbed. "Please. No. Help. Wait. Stop. Help, Bill, please!" 

Bill struggled to move until his bones ached. His head was full of fuzz and noise. Was this really what Danny had felt like? Was it really Father Ford talking? Was there anything of Ford left? 

Something hot streaked down his face, noticeable against the cold of the room. Bill openly wept. 

"No, no, no," Ford wailed. "Aaaaahhhhhhh!" His hips started moving, thrusting back up against whatever specter fucked him in his mind, even as his feet were held aloft by invisible forces, keeping him place.

Bill managed to open his mouth. "Stop it," he managed to say, but the cold wind stole his voice.

"Ooohhhh!" Ford moaned. His moans got loader, and throatier, and more and more sensual. "Biiiillllllll!"

"Stop it!" Bill shouted, roared, screamed himself hoarse. 

Finally, Ford came, thick spurts of milky white landing all the way up his chest. There was… a lot. More than there should be. It landed on Ford's face with a _splat_. 

Bill heard the Thing laughing in the back of his head. 

"That's my mark on his face," the Thing whispered to him. 

Ford tossed fitfully on the bed, moaning. "Bill," he sobbed, broken. 

The cold wind finally let Bill down from his cross. It rushed around the room, then moved back into Ford with a sickening pulse. 

The Thing made a show of licking Ford's come off his face, slow, sensuous, humming sweetly. It made Ford smile lasciviously at Bill. 

"He was hard for hours," the Thing said, calmly and smoothly. "This was torture. You're torturing him. I hope you know that, Bill." 

\--

It went on like this for three more days.

Bill would read from the Rite of Exorcism. When Sister Wendy was on the line, she'd pray the responses. The Thing would rage for hours, and go quiet for hours.

Bill would take the quiet time to clean Ford's body, and tend to the wounds on his wrists and ankles. He changed the sheets around him as best he could. Ford wet the bed repeatedly, vomited a few times, and shit it once, but the Thing refused food, so they didn't have to deal with any more shit.

Bill raided supplies from other rooms, and took out the filthy sheets from theirs whenever he could. 

When Sister Wendy was on the line, and the Thing went quiet, either resting deep inside Father Ford, or munching on his soul and showing him terrible things, Bill would try to sleep on the other bed. He fell into short naps, wracked with terrible dreams. When it wasn't Ford, it was Danny, and when it wasn't Danny, it was Brian.

He tried to feed Father Ford. Solids were out of the question-- the Thing would clamp Ford's mouth shut and grin like a child. So the top priority was keeping Ford hydrated. When it was quiet, and the priest seemed to be sleeping, Bill would wet a cloth with tap water and try to get him to suckle as much of it as he could. Sometimes he gave him Gatorade. Trying to get the vitamins into him was pointless. 

Sister Wendy was a godsend, and it was only by her insistence that Bill made sure to eat at regular intervals. She made sure he drank plenty of water, and Gatorade, since this was such weirdly physically taxing work and he sweat right through to his surcoat. He took the vitamins, and every day he took an iron pill. His liver would probably hate him later, but if it helped keep the Thing out of him, it was worth it.

He also took a sip of the blood of Christ every now and then throughout the day, for the same reason. 

Sister Wendy made him take a real break for meals. He'd go out on the balcony and shut the door behind him. He would eat a sad sandwich, or some beef jerky, and gaze out at the motel's swimming pool. When he had made the staff leave, nobody had covered the pool or turned off the lights. It glowed blue at night. There were some dead birds in there. Every time he went out, there'd be a few more.

He drank his beer out on the balcony, and smoked his cigarettes. 

Bill didn't have a lot of vices. He didn't gamble, and he didn't do drugs, and he didn't eat meat on Fridays. He was a good Catholic. He just drank. 

_Has to drink to stop himself from hitting his annoying little wife._ It didn't matter how untrue or far from reality some of the Thing's taunts were, they still rattled around Bill's brain whenever they were most unwelcome. 

And anyways. Some of them _were_ true. 

After the second day, they really started to get to him. He made the mistake of arguing with the Thing again, and it treated him to the full force of everything he hated about himself.

"Why don't I show him more about sweet Danny?" the Thing taunted. "Why don't I show him what it was like to be be nineteen years old, fighting in a crusade over something he'll never understand. I'll show him how I found Danny in the trenches, so scared and lonely and sad, untouched, unloved Danny, just like him. I'll show him how I used Danny to slaughter two dozen filthy, godless gooks! How much _fun_ I had! 

"I'll show him how _proud_ you were of me. Proud of my kills. Your protege. Their soldiers were younger than yooouuUURRRSS. Starving children. Unwanted sons. Boy-killer Tench! That's you! Hero of the Korean Crusade! I forget Bill, did Rome win that Crusade? Does godless Korea belong to the church? Nooooooooooooo, I didn't thiiiiiiink so. So what did sweet Danny Graham die for? He died because you used him and you threw him awaaaaAAAYY!" 

Later that day, the Thing shifted its attention back to Sister Wendy, and went on for hours shouting invectives about her, her work, her sexuality, her gender in general, her hypocrisy-- she was, apparently, another spouse of God who didn't _really_ believe in Him. It accused Wendy of seducing her female students, of corrupting them just like she had been corrupted by an older nun before her; it accused her whole order of dark masses, secret abortions, of providing birth control to young women. 

The Thing shouted and screamed that the whole world was going to discover what a sad group of deviants ran the BSU, how all their work was for nothing, how ultimately they were powerless to stop any kind of evil in their putrid, sorry world. 

When Bill and Sister Wendy were calling on various saints and angels to pray for them, the Thing ceased one of its ramblings in a foreign tongue, and scoffed. 

"Why do you beseech cunt-licking saints to pray for you?" it sneered, twisting Ford's face into a look of pure hate. "Why can't you just pray your fucking self? Is it because God's not listening? I hate to say it, guys, but this sounds like it might just be another one of the Pope's scams." 

Then a cold wind rushed around the room, and an invisible force pulled the phone out of the wall, taking a chunk of drywall with it.

"Finally," said the Thing. "No more goddamn _bitching_."

\--

The Thing's attitudes about God and humans was contradictory. Most of the time it would rage on and on about how vile and disgusting humans were, and how God had turned His back on them.

"God gave you _paradise_ and you _ruined_ it!" The Thing would scream. "He gave you _everything_! He gave you bodies to touch and feel and love and you decided they were _sinful_! He gave you a vvvvvaaaaSSSST garden to satisfy your every need and you _tore it apaaaaaaarrt_! You squandered it you squandered it you squandered it you _fucknut pigs!!_ I can't wait until every last one of you dies screaming in the _flood of your own making!_" 

This alleged coming flood was a favourite topic of the Thing's ire. Ford would thrash against his chains, and kick wildly, or levitate, or arch off the bed, howling. "God promised you, he promised you, he promised you he'd never destroy the world in another flood! He made fucking _rainbows_ for you! And now look! You cocksuckers are doing it to yourself! I hope you're fucking pprrrooUUUUD!" 

And yet other times: "God is chaos and nothing else! You shitting soft-brains made these _fucking rules_ to make sense of the world because you're too stupid to accept that there's no meaning! You're the ones who boxed us all in! Like God is a cunting ATM, and if you just put in the right combination you will get ggrAAAAAaaaace!!! You fucking _toads_!" 

But sometimes, Father Ford would lie still, in a kind of feverish sleep, mumbling like he was sleep talking. "God loves you so much," The Thing would say. "You don't even know. You have no idea what it's like to be so far away. You don't have to do anything. You just have to let him love you." The Thing would almost sob, self-pitying, openly jealous. "He already loves you, no matter what. You don't even have to ask. You're loved. He made rainbows for you. You're loved. You're loved. He made rainbows for you." 

Sometimes the Thing would contort Ford into different stress positions and ramble in other languages, or in backwards talking. 

Bill had a theory about this. He thought, as the Thing got tired, its ability to operate the vehicle got a little shaky. It would talk backwards first, then in Spanish, which Bill knew Ford was proficient in, and then in Latin, which Bill knew Ford studied at the seminary. 

Then it would speak what Bill _thought_ was Greek, and then what he thought was Aramaic, two more languages Ford would have learned at least a little bit at the seminary. Finally it spoke words Bill had to assume were either long dead languages, or not human languages at all. 

Once it spoke Korean, which Ford definitely did not know. This was not part of its pattern of exhaustion. This was just to upset Bill. 

It worked. By the third day, Bill questioned everything he had ever done in his life. 

"Fuck me, Bill," the Thing would tempt him throughout. It was relentless.

_Jesus survived 40 days of temptation in the desert,_ Bill would remind himself. But by now he was inundated with the Thing's influence, and he would scoff. _Jesus was the fucking son of God. Who the hell are you?_

"Holden wants you so bad," it said, calmly. "He doesn't think he deserves you. He's so typically human. The good ones think they're no good, and the bad ones think they're excellent." The Thing made Ford sneer at him. "God made a terrible mistake forming you out of the muck." 

There were _so_ many cockroaches in the bathroom. Bill would go to the other room to shower. 

\-- 

On the fourth day, Bill ran on a few hours of sleep snatched here and there, a few bad sandwiches, and some Gatorade. He was almost out of cigarettes, and slightly tipsy from the blood of Christ. He was alone, since the phone had been ripped out, and he couldn't move Father Ford to another room. 

He sat outside the ring of salt. He'd had to drag in a chair from another room, since the Thing had destroyed all the furniture in here except the bed Ford lay upon, and the desk-cum-altar. 

Bill sat in that chair with his head in his hand, the Roman Ritual on his lap, mumbling prayers. The last bucket of holy water sat next to him. He didn't know where the loofah had gone. 

"You can end this," the Thing slurred. 

Ford was still naked-- any attempt to cover him was laughingly defied by the demon. He looked one moment beautifully fucked out, cheeks rosy and hair curling; and in another moment deathly pale, trench-worn and exhausted. Those moments blended into each other, until both looks were the same look to Bill. 

Ecstasy and agony. St. Sebastian on the tree. 

The last twelve hours there'd been a persistent clicking sound coming from deep inside Father Ford. It was either the Thing trying to rest, maybe losing strength-- or it was the Thing's stomach rumbling, ready for more, insatiable. 

They were both waiting for the other to tire themselves out. A new tactic was necessary. 

"You can swap places," grinned the Thing. "Let me in, and I'll leave him alone. I'll let him live. I'll leave his soul in peace. Come on, Bill. Come here. Fuck him. That's all I want. Then I'll be in you, and he'll be safe." 

Bill's throat was dry. He could barely speak anymore, let alone pray. His flesh felt heavy on his skeleton, face droopy with exhaustion. 

Father Ford gazed at him, eyes fever bright, grin demonically wide. 

Bill searched for anything that was left of his pilgrim. It had only been four days, but he looked like he'd already lost weight. There were deep lines under his usually inquisitive eyes, and blue veins were bright against his skin, like the demon was poisoning him from the inside out. 

"He's in so much pain, Bill," said the Thing. 

"If--," Bill cleared his throat. "If I let you take me, you promise you'd leave him alone?" 

The Thing nodded, gleeful. "Of course, Bill. Anything for you." 

"But you're a liar," Bill said, weakly.

"Not this time," said the Thing. "Holden can't last much longer. And you're so tired. Save his life, Bill. Come on." 

Father Ford went still then for a moment, his eyes falling shut, long lashes a shadow against his pale face. Then he stirred, weakly, like waking from a long fever. He stared up at Bill with wet, terrified eyes. "Bill," he croaked, his voice hoarse and pitiable. "Please." 

"Holden," Bill said. "I…" 

"Please, Bill," Ford whispered. 

He closed his eyes, and a tear rolled down his cheek. 

Something hard and cold and unpleasant grew in Bill's solar plexus. He leaned down, stroked Ford's hair. Spoke close to his ear. "Holden, I know that's not you. Keep fighting. He's getting tired. We're getting rid of him." 

Ford's eyes grew wide, bloodshot, enraged. "You fucking _tease!_" the Thing screeched, hurling Bill back with a forceful push of wind. 

Bill flew across the room and crashed into the desk-altar, shattering the mirror behind it. An explosion of pain across his back and hips kept him momentarily pinned down. 

"I'm _so fucking bored_ of this!" the Thing raged, screaming just as loud and passionately as it had on the very first day. 

Father Ford stood as best he could with his arms still bound to the headboard. He started twisting unnaturally. 

"No!" Bill tried to shout, picking himself up off the desk. 

The Thing howled in anger, twisting until Ford's right arm snapped out of place. Then it laughed uproariously as the chains simply shattered around it. 

Bill slipped off the desk and landed on the floor, staring up at Ford in horror. 

His pilgrim stood naked on the bed, pulling chains off his arms easily. 

"I didn't even have to do that!" the Thing chortled. "Twist his arm right out of its socket. I just liked the look on your face. Oh, but it hurt for Holden. It hurt like hhHHEEEelllll." The Thing maneuvered Ford's body like a puppet, throwing his arms over his head in a parody of a dance. "Every move is _agony_, Bill!" 

"Get out," Bill commanded, weakly. He'd said it so many times, and the demon hadn't listened. "I command you, in the name of Christ--" 

The Thing tried to hop off the bed, and bounced off the ring of salt's invisible protection, landing back on the bed.

"Fuck!" The Thing threw a tantrum. Ford grabbed the headboard of the bed and started shaking it back and forth. 

All Bill could think about was the pressure it was putting on Ford's busted shoulder. He could barely breathe. He groped around on the floor for the bible, the crucifix, any shred of hope or sanity, anything. 

"I'm so sick of these stupid! Rules!" The Thing raged as it slid the bed back and forth. "You goddamn idiot-- fucking retard-- every rule has a shitting _loophole!_" The legs of the bed inched through the salt, breaking the circle. 

Ford stepped down, and stood over Bill. "Okay, kemosabe," it said in what would have been Ford's affectionate imitation of Bill, if Ford ever did that sort of thing. "Let's get to work." 

Bill found the end of the rosary, a tiny wooden crucifix with what looked like some of Ford's dried come on it. He brandished it pathetically at the Thing. "Depart, impious one!"

"Oh, come on, Bill," scoffed the Thing. 

Bill grabbed Ford's calf and pulled him to the floor, wrestled him until he was on top. 

The Thing just beamed. "Bill!" it giggled in Ford's brightest, sweetest voice. "Buy a guy dinner first!"

Bill pressed the little crucifix against Ford's chest. The priest arched off the floor, hissing, and his skin sizzled. 

"Depart, accursed one!" Bill shouted. "Depart with all your deceits--" 

Ford punched Bill in the throat. Then he kicked him off, easily, once again sending him sprawling into a corner of the room with the breath knocked out of him. 

Ford levitated high. There was a noisy, violent rush of wind in the room. Ford's eyes were almost entirely black.

Ford rubbed at the cross-shaped burn on his chest with his dislocated arm. "Jesus fuck, Bill," the Thing grumbled. "_Another_ fucking scar on his supple young skin. I'm sure he really appreciates that. Now, I'm starting to lose my patience a little bit. This sad, aging twink is getting his cherry popped whether you like it or not." 

Ford's black eyes lit up as he saw the remaining bottles of the blood of Christ. "That'll do," the Thing purred, and Ford floated down towards the bottles. 

"Wait--" Bill croaked. 

Ford touched one of the bottles. It burst so fast, Bill barely understood what was happening. It was like the blood of Christ boiled instantly, and the bottle exploded, splattering literal blood everywhere. The already filthy room now smelled like a crime scene.

Ford crouched in the corner of the ceiling like a fucking spider, bent unnaturally to stay up there. He was covered in the sizzling blood of Christ, and several small cuts. 

The Thing laughed in delight. "Look, Bill. Look what happened!"

Bill saw a particularly nasty piece of green bottle glass sticking out of Ford's side. "Shit," he muttered. But that's not what the Thing meant.

Some of the blood of Christ had splattered into the second ring of salt, the one that bound the Thing inside the room. As the blood rapidly congealed and separated, the salt ring broke. 

"Fucking loopholes," gloated the Thing. "Gotta love it, Bill." He fell to the floor, landed hard on his back. He arched up in all fours backwards like a gymnast, and fucking _skittered_ into the hallway. 

Bill felt like sobbing. He didn't curse, and he didn't pray. He could barely even think. He grabbed one of the last two remaining boxes of salt, and limped out after his possessed pilgrim. 

He chased the Thing around the motel, while it cackled and taunted him. "Holden is in incredible pain right now," it mocked him as it ran up to the main doors of the lobby. Father Ford was naked, covered in cuts and sores, clearly undernourished and dehydrated, the piece of bottle still digging into his side. He lazily leaned against the door with his busted arm to push it open, closed his eyes in sensuous pleasure. "He's just _howling_!" 

"Get the fuck back here!" Bill finally found his voice again, still wheezing hard. He limped as he ran, and couldn't remember any of the rite. Part of him-- God help him, part of him regretted not taking the Thing up on its offer to swap only twenty minutes earlier.

The Thing, as usual, picked up on his doubt. "You should have taken my deal when you had the chance, William dumbfuck Tench," it spat. It ambled around the parking lot, scraping Ford's bare, soft feet against old asphalt and bottle caps and who knows what else. "You should have taken my deal _days ago_." 

Bill kept trudging after the Thing, determined. He tried not to think anything. 

As Bill got closer, the Thing would step backwards lazily, keeping several paces between them. It seemed careless about where it was going, as long as it was toying with Bill. 

"There's barely anything _left of him_," the Thing sneered. "And he feels every sink of my teeth inside him, in the softest parts of a human soul that YOOuuuu'vveee forGOTTEN about, he feels every stab of agony and he knows it's because _yooouuu_ were too proud to admit you were a _fucking faggot!_" 

Bill kept trying not to think. He stared only at Father Ford, and stepped forward, pushing him around the parking lot, towards the back of the motel.

"Where's your fucking sidearm, you useless waste of male flesh?" the Thing demanded. "I'm gonna blow this fairy's brains out, and then I'm gonna take you and fuck his corpse. They'll put you in prison with Speck, and the three of us will have the grandest of times!" 

Bill didn't think. He tore open the box of salt. 

"Stop ignoring me!!!" The Thing shrieked, stepping ever backward. "How _dare_ you feign to be better than me, you walking shit factory! You bag of hair and water! You scion of the great poisoners of paradise! William Tench, _murderer of Korean boys!_" 

Ford levitated slightly off the ground. It was mid-afternoon by now, but the sky was dark with clouds, and they started swirling above them. Thunder gathered in the distance. 

"You cannot defeat me! I am Ashmedai! I am kleśa-māra, I am Aka ManaaaaaAAAAHHH!!" Its voice went guttural and deep and demonic. 

They had come around fully to the back of the motel now.

It started roaring in tongues. "_Pâta-nô tbishyañtat pairi mazdåsca_!" It screamed. "_Pâta-nô tbishyañtat pairi mazdåssssscccaaaaaa_!" 

Suddenly Bill lunged towards it. 

It grinned, and turned to run.

It stopped short with a monstrous growl, blocked by the motel's pool, dirty from days of neglect and about twenty dead birds.

Whatever its long litany of possibly-fake ancient names, Bill remembered one thing about Asmoday. It _hated_ water and birds. 

Bill tackled Father Ford by the waist, and they both flopped into the filthy pool. The box of salt started spilling before it crashed down, too, spreading a wide arc of holy salt across the water.

The water started to bubble-- but to Bill, it felt deathly cold. 

Ford kicked and struggled immediately. Bill grabbed him and tried to keep him in a bear hug. They spasmed towards the surface.

The Thing howled and gasped, making the absolute worst sounds Bill had heard in his life, even in the last three days. Thunder rumbled fast, and the mid-afternoon sky was as dark as night.

Struggling to keep afloat, Bill grabbed Ford by the hair and dunked him. Ford spasmed violently, punched and kicked, and almost took Bill down with him a couple of times.

Bill couldn't remember the prayer to bless water. He didn't remember the rite of baptism. He wasn't a priest, and wasn't empowered to do either of those things. 

"God, please save him," he prayed instead, between bouts of being pulled underwater by a frantic demon. "Please," he prayed, shaking salt water out of his eyes. "Please, God. I'm sorry. Please."

The water bubbled at full boil. It was freezing cold to Bill. The Thing made Ford kick and flail and scream underwater, pulling at Bill hatefully.

Bill felt himself getting weaker. He'd been close to drowning before, in army training. He had maybe one pull-under left before he wouldn't be able to fight his way back to the surface.

"Please, God," he sobbed. "Let me drown. Just save him." 

An earth-shaking THRUM of energy shot through the pool. It was like the evil moving in the prison, but on an almost planetary scale. Something shot up out of Ford, bringing a column of water with it that almost did Bill in. The water fell back down, and the pool calmed.

Bill was deaf for a second. He realized the wind had died. The clouds ceased moving. The thunder stopped.

Holden floated motionless in his arms 

Bill took a breath.

Holden suddenly gasped. He retched up pool water, coughed pathetically.

"Holden," Bill sobbed. "Holden. Shit." He put his pilgrim's good arm around his shoulder, and kicked hard to keep them afloat. He was so, so tired. He almost cried anew when his feet found the bottom of the shallow end of the pool.

Holden trembled, laid his head on Bill's shoulder. He was so frail and lifeless. His busted arm floated uselessly beside him. Bill was careful not to jostle the piece of glass bottle in his side as he slowly inched them towards the edge of the pool.

"Billllll," Holden barely breathed. His voice was nothing more than a scratchy whisper. His smooth, refined, beautiful voice, probably ruined forever. 

"It's okay, kiddo," Bill said, almost as weakly. "It's gone."

"He's…" Holden could barely keep his eyes open. "He's coming back…"

"No," Bill said firmly. "It's gone. I got rid of it."

Holden clung to Bill for dear life. He gazed at Bill from point blank rage, a million-yard stare that made Bill want to rip out his own heart. "No, Bill," he croaked. "You have to fuck me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Pâta-nô tbishyañtat pairi mazdåsca" means (I think) "Keep us from our hater, oh Mazda." 
> 
> It is from Zoroastrian scripture, specifically from the Avesta's exorcism rite, which i found [here](http://www.avesta.org/ka/ka_part1.htm#kemna). I am 100% trusting the internet about all of this lol. 
> 
> Basically, the demon is mocking their exorcism rite by reciting a much older one.


	5. And I Fly Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some comfort after the hurt.

Bill gently lay his pilgrim down in the hallway outside their ruined motel room. Holden murmured and shivered as Bill darted into the room and rushed back with their first aid kit, a mug of water, and some Tylenol. 

"It's okay, kid," he said. "I've got you. Hey." He patted Holden's pale cheek. "Tell me your name.”

"Holden Ford," the priest tried to say. His eyelids fluttered, and his voice was scratchy and broken. 

"Great, good job," said Bill. He tried to use his soothing, safe, talking-to-victims voice, but he felt the cheer was too obviously false. "Try to drink this for me, okay, Holden?" He made Holden drink the water, and swallow some Tylenol, like that was going to do anything.

The wound in Holden's side bled freely-- the wet surcoat Bill had wrapped around him after removing the glass hadn't helped at all. Bill carefully inspected it for any more pieces of broken glass. It was relatively small, and didn't go deep-- the glass had mostly gone in sideways. It only needed a few stitches. 

"Bill," Holden croaked. "You have to fuck me."

"Don't worry about that right now," said Bill. "Just keep breathing." 

He cleaned the wound with rubbing alcohol, making Holden cry out weakly. The stitching wasn't any more pleasant. But Bill's brief army medic training paid off, as the wound closed with three hasty stitches. 

"Shit," Bill muttered when he noticed the cross-shaped burn on Holden's chest. 

He ducked back into the room to grab one of the spare pillowcases he'd raided from the maid's closet, and then ran down the hall to the ice machine. 

He put his makeshift ice pack on the burn, and instructed Holden to keep it in place with his good hand. 

"It's cold, Bill." Holden's teeth chattered. 

"I know, kid," Bill soothed. "Just a little longer and you'll be in a nice warm bath." 

Bill had to set Holden's shoulder. He made Holden lay flat, which was hard with the way he shivered, and then gently moved his arm up and around, massaging the shoulder muscles, gently guiding it back into place. 

"Billll," Holden whined. Tears slipped out of his eyes. "That hurts!" 

"Just a bit more," said Bill. "It'll feel better in a second."

He knew the instant the shoulder was reduced back in place, because Holden made a little squeaking noise, and blinked. He sniffled and shuddered, but looked a tiny bit relieved. 

Bill went once again into the filthy room. He got the duct tape, and another pillowcase, and made a very makeshift sling to keep Holden's arm stable for now. 

Then he leaned over for a second, almost rested his head on the ground. He was so tired, he was dizzy. _When you're spiritually weak,_ he thought. _That's the real danger._ He'd power through this, for Holden. Just a little bit more, like he said. 

"Okay, kemosabe," he said. "Do you think you can walk a little? If I help you?" 

Holden trembled violently. Bill helped him sit up, helped him put his good arm around Bill's shoulders. But when Bill moved for them to stand, Holden's shaky legs gave out. He'd spent four days tied to a bed, with nothing but a little water and Gatorade, enduring who knows what kind of spiritual terrors. 

"I'm sorry, Bill," Holden sobbed, as much as his broken voice would even let him. 

"It's okay," said Bill. "We're doing our best." With gritted teeth, he knelt and lifted Holden once again into a bridal carry. 

Bill had broken down the doors of all the rooms on the floor during this whole godforsaken ordeal. At the very end of the hall was a sort of mini honeymoon suite-- a larger room than the others, with one big king-sized bed, a little sitting area with a couch, a coffee machine and microwave, and a slightly nicer bathroom. He'd left all the sheets and towels in place there, intending it to be Holden's recovery room. 

He put Holden in the bathtub and started filling it up, careful to warm the water gradually. Holden made little whines and noises as the tub filled, still holding the makeshift icepack to his burn. Bill kept petting the priest's hair. 

When the tub was full, Bill had Holden bless the water. Then he brought him another mug of lukewarm water from the tap. 

"Drink this," he said. "And sit tight. I'll be right back." 

Holden looked like he was about to whine again, but was too busy drinking thirstily to do it. 

Bill grabbed their suitcases, what was left of their food, the remnants of Holden's mass kit. All their earthly possessions. He piled them into the honeymoon suite and locked the door, like that could keep the evil out.

There was one box of salt left. He spread a ring around the outside of the room, extra barriers in front of the windows and door. A tight ring around the bed. 

Holden was nodding off in the bathtub when Bill returned. 

"Hey," Bill said gently, crouching down with a wash cloth. "What's your name?"

"Holden Ford," the priest mumbled sleepily. Bill allowed himself a small smile, and set to work cleaning Holden off of four days of filth and sweat and fear. 

When Holden was clean to Bill's satisfaction, he helped him out of the tub and towelled him off. Holden was able to stay upright this time, and Bill helped him the handful of steps to the bed. 

He lay Holden down on the bed. Put the makeshift ice pack on Holden’s busted shoulder. Put antibiotic ointment from their first aid kit on the burn, and then bandaged it up. 

The wound in Holden's side was still weeping a little around the stitches. Bill put the antibiotic ointment on, then some butterfly bandages, then a pad of gauze, which he secured with duct tape. 

"Bill," Holden whispered. "Are you gonna fuck me?"

"Not yet," Bill said. "Just try to rest." He ran his hands up and down Holden's naked, vulnerable body, steadfastly ignoring the young priest's limp, vulnerable cock. Bill checked for broken bones, any broken ribs. He checked Holden's fingers and toes. He put antibiotic ointment on the little cuts and scrapes all around him, on his wrists and ankles. 

Bill covered Holden's shivering body with a fluffy motel robe, and all the blankets they had. He brought over the three vials of holy oil. He smeared more chrism on Holden's forehead

"Bill," Holden said. He struggled to open his eyes. "Please."

"Holden," Bill almost sobbed. He sagged over on the bed. "We both have vows."

Holden's breath caught. "He's coming back," he pleaded. 

Bill stroked Holden's cheek. "Even if-- I can't right now, kid. Just-- eat something, and get some rest, okay?"

Bill didn't leave Holden time to respond. He went to their meagre food supplies. Emptied a can of SpaghettiOs into a motel mug, and heated it up in the microwave. He helped Holden sit up against the headboard with the support of a lot of pillows. Sat on the edge of the bed, and spoon fed Holden. He rotated the servings-- one for Holden, one for himself. Two to a bowl, as Templars were obliged. 

Holden looked absolutely miserable, to put it lightly. He took each spoonful without complaint, but also without any eagerness. He stared at a point somewhere over Bill's shoulder, his eyes tired and drawn and a million miles away. 

Bill's stomach grumbled. He tried not to eat more of the SpaghettiOs than Holden did. 

There were two host wafers left, and one bottle of the blood of Christ. Holden was in no shape to say mass. He opened his mouth for Bill to place the host, and had no trouble swallowing it, which made Bill send up a prayer of thanks. 

Bill poured a small mug of the blood of Christ for them to share. After a few sips, Holden's cheeks were tinged with pink, and his eyelids were fluttering shut. 

Bill helped him lay back down. The ice pack had melted, and the makeshift sling was wet and ruined. Bill took the time to make a better sling and splint out of a rolled towel and yet another pillowcase, keeping the arm stable and held tight against Holden's chest.

"You have to fuck me," Holden whispered as Bill tucked the sheets and blankets around him to make a warm cocoon. 

"I know," said Bill. "Just get some sleep for now."

As Holden slept, Bill took a long, hot shower. There wasn't a cockroach in sight. He leaned his head against the tiles. He felt like crying, but he didn't have the energy.

After, he greedily drank a few mugs of Gatorade, trying desperately to fill his belly.

Finally-- finally-- he crawled into bed next to Holden. He carefully and protectively put his arm around his pilgrim. He tried to say a prayer, but he was deep asleep before he could finish. 

\--

"Bill," Holden's scratchy, damaged whisper of a voice roused him some countless hours later. "Bill, I'm hungry."

At that, Bill snapped awake. He hadn't dreamt at all-- just darkness between crawling into bed and waking what seemed the next moment. He looked around blearily. It was early evening when they had gone to bed, and now the afternoon sun was shining. 

"What's your name?" Bill asked. 

Holden huffed an impatient sigh. "Holden Ford," he croaked. "Bill, I'm hungry and I have to pee." 

Bill realized he hadn't even moved from his position, one arm slung possessively over his pilgrim. He helped Holden stand and shuffle into the bathroom. Holden held his robe modestly tight around himself, which Bill took as a good sign, along with the hunger. 

Bill found an old _Bonanza_ rerun on TV. He helped Holden back to bed, and fed him by hand again. There was one can of SpaghettiOs left, which they shared from the same mug. Then a tube of Pringles, and what was left of the beef jerky. Bill made Holden sip water between every bite, and take an iron supplement. 

Holden sighed and rested his head against Bill's shoulder. They hadn't said anything for about an hour. 

"I'm not asking you to fuck me because he's still here," Holden finally whispered. "If you fuck me, he'll lose interest, and he'll leave us alone."

"You can't know that," said Bill. "And we have vows. That's what this Thing wants, Holden. It wants us to turn away from the church and question our faith, that's when it wins."

Holden scowled, and buried his face into Bill's shoulder. He whispered something that sounded like it started with _I don't--_ and then broke off. 

"As soon as you're up for it, I'm taking you home," Bill declared. "Tomorrow. I'll take you to Sister Wendy's order. They'll make sure that Thing's completely gone, and fix up your shoulder-- Oh, shit, I should call Wendy."

He called her at her apartment, and then had to try her at work. Holden glared at him the entire time, propped up against the headboard with pillows. It was nothing, at least, like the way that Thing had glared at him. But Bill still looked away. 

He gave Wendy a truncated version of what had happened-- he'd gotten rid of the Thing, Holden was keeping down the flesh and blood of Christ, and they were resting. They'd be on the road tomorrow. Sister Wendy still sounded pretty unimpressed. Neither of them mentioned anything the demon had said.

Holden pouted and pointedly looked away as Bill turned off the TV, and came sit on the bed. "Okay, I think after a nap, I'll go look for more food," Bill said, though he was still worried about leaving Holden alone. "I don't think we can order pizza while the place is technically an active crime scene." 

Holden leaned over and clumsily mashed his closed mouth up against Bill's.

"God--" Bill put his hands gently on Holden's shoulders. "Kid. For fuck's sake!"

"He's coming back, Bill!" Holden's voice was so small and strained that it belied the intensity of his gaze. Tears threatened at his eyes. "He wants you. He's not going to stop. If he gets me again, I'm not going to make it. And if I'm going to hell anyway, then I want to have the thing I want. Please."

"The thing you want?" Bill's chest hurt. He put a hand on Holden's cheek. The young man leaned into it, his mouth curled into a miserable pout. "Are you _sure_ it's what you want? It's not-- that thing could have put it there, Holden."

"No," Holden croaked. "I always wanted it. God help me, Bill, I always wanted _you_. From the moment we met. And I knew..." he blinked at tears, and leaned his head against Bill's chest. "I always knew I was different, and that I would have to be alone. I thought that was just how God had made me. He made me for Himself, so I couldn't have love. And I was okay with it. I joined the seminary and I gave my life to Him. But then I met you and it was like... every day was a test."

"Holden," Bill sighed. He patted the younger man's back.

"But it also felt right," Holden said. Bill had to strain to hear. "Why would God put us together if it was wrong?" 

Bill didn't have anything to say to that. He was never a theologian. 

"I'm sorry, Bill," Holden whispered. "I thought I could manage it. I thought if I was just strong enough then I couldn't be compromised."

Bill squeezed the nape of Holden's neck. "How did the thing get in, Holden? Did you actually invite it?"

Holden sighed against his chest again. 

"It was just… dreams," his pilgrim finally said, after a long pause. "I had dreamed about you before. I didn't think anything was strange about it. Just dreams about what it would be like to be with you. If you weren't married, and I wasn't a priest, and it wasn't a sin. I just wanted to stay there." He burrowed further into Bill's arms. "When I dreamed about him, I was curious. He said he would tell me everything I wanted to know, and he said that I could have you if I just said yes. I was ashamed of it, and I hated myself for it. But I didn't think it was real. I thought it was just a dream." 

Holden fell silent. Bill stroked his back. He suddenly realized what the Thing had said about Holden never having had a gentle touch. He suddenly felt cold, and he slowly took his hand away. 

"I don't think he cares about faith," whispered Holden. "I think he gets in when you hate yourself." The young man drew back and looked up at Bill. "And I didn't think he would show me other things about you." 

Bill frowned. "Like what?"

Holden averted his gaze, bit his lip. "He showed me... fantasies that he said you'd had about me. Some of them were really nice, and some of them were..." he blinked hard. "I know he was lying. I know you don't feel that way about me. But it seemed so real. That's what almost got me. I'm sorry, Bill."

Bill grit his teeth. "Did it show you... about Daniel Graham?"

Holden nodded, his head bowed. 

"How much?" 

Holden didn't respond for a while. "A lot," he finally said.

Bill rubbed his face.

"I know you didn't hurt Daniel," Holden said. "I don't believe him. But the rest... it's hard to tell what's real and what's not." 

Bill sighed, and sank onto the bed. 

"But that's why I know he's coming back," said Holden. "He's obsessed with you, Bill. He doesn't care about me. He wants you. I think he loves you." 

"What the _fuck_," Bill spat.

"I mean... as much as something like that _can_ love," said Holden. "The way Kemper loves his spirit wives. He wants you as a trophy."

Bill felt like throwing up. "Why?!" 

Holden stared down at his hands. "Tell me about Daniel Graham," he said. "Tell me the truth. Then I'll know if what he showed me was real or not."

Bill felt a twinge of something hard and uncomfortable in his throat. "Holden, you have to understand. I've never told _anyone_ about Daniel." 

"I know," Holden said.

"I'm not _allowed_ to tell," Bill said. "It's classified."

Holden's head was still bowed, and Bill could see his big eyes flickering back and forth. Thinking. "You can say confession to me, Bill," he said. "It'll be confidential." 

"I've never even confessed this," Bill muttered.

"Unburden yourself," Holden whispered. "Please, Bill, help me understand the truth."

Bill sighed. Made himself sit up. Made himself scoot a little further away from Holden, lest he be tempted to reach out for comfort from the younger man.

"It was in the Korean Crusade," he said. "I was young. Daniel was younger. He was in my unit. He was the baby cousin of-- of a girl I knew in high school."

"Nancy?" Holden asked.

Bill gave him a wry look. "Does it matter?"

Holden dropped his gaze again.

"I promised this girl I knew that I'd look after her cousin. He was-- really small, and sensitive. He didn't belong there. He was drafted, obviously, but I don't know how he got past training. He was so..." Bill bit off a sigh and looked away. "Everyone bullied him. I tried to stand up for him, keep him safe. And I-- I think I knew he had a crush on me. He wasn't very good at hiding it."

He sat up further, and turned so his feet were on the floor. "Holden, you have to understand that in the army, guys just blow off steam sometimes. You get up to... Stuff… that's not necessarily right, but it's not _queer_. It's war. And it was trenches. Stuff just happens." 

Holden's eyes were very wide. "I understand," he said, though his face clearly indicated that he didn't. 

"We weren't _proud_ of it." Bill frowned. "It just... was. We were young, and there weren't any girls around, and we thought we were going to die. And if someone does something to you, you can't talk about it, because _that_ makes _you_ queer. So what do you do? What are you supposed to do?"

Holden stared down at the sheets. Bill thought about those Dominican friars the Thing had taunted him about. He didn't want to ask. He didn't want to know. 

Bill sighed and rested his head in his hands. 

Holden bumped his foot against Bill's hip. "Keep going," he whispered. 

"So we-- we fooled around, but it didn't mean anything. Maybe I knew that it meant more to Daniel. But I wasn't…" Bill grit his teeth. "Daniel struggled. It would be convenient for me to say I didn't notice, but I did notice. I should have tried harder to get him discharged. They weren't discharging anybody from Korea, anyway." 

Bill stared down at his feet on the floor, steadfastly staring away from Holden. 

"Our commanders hated Daniel. He was a liability. I told him, you know… have faith, pray to God for strength. And I told him I'd look after him. I'd protect him. I’d have his back." Bill rubbed at his face. "I guess… maybe he felt like should also have my back. I guess I didn't make it clear that he was okay. He was trying, and it was the best he could do, and he was fine the way he was.

"One day he just… changed. It was like he suddenly became a man. Grew a pair overnight. I thought, great. He's snapped out of it. That's what I thought people did back then. That's what everybody thought people did back then. You just _got over it._"

Bill didn't look back at Holden. He could hear his pilgrim shifting on the sheets. 

"I'm not going to tell you the name of the town we were in, Holden," said Bill. "It's classified. You don't want to know the details, anyway. We had pushed the North Koreans back, and liberated the town. We were there to help them transition power to South Korea. But we were still in the trenches every day. There was still fighting. Even in town. North Korean insurgents were hiding, and there was bad blood between local factions." 

He chanced a glance over his shoulder and saw Holden's furrowed brow. "It was fucking chaos, kid," he said.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," Holden croaked.

"In hindsight," Bill spat. "It's obvious that a kid like Daniel doesn't suddenly _man up_ in a place like that. He'd only get worse. But… fuck me. I didn't know. I had no idea of the depths of my ignorance."

Bill looked back down at his feet. 

"The brass were terrified of losing control of the area. We could barely keep the peace between the locals. If the North Koreans came back, they'd have us in a heartbeat. So the commanders… There were… refugees, I guess you'd call them. From the north. They'd trickled down all the time. We were told to just shoot everyone on sight."

Bill looked at the carpet under his feet. 

"I know murder is a sin," he said. "But when your commander says to do it… kid, I'm going to tell you something that's going to take the blush off the rose for you, a little bit."

He turned to Holden, but didn't look at his face. He looked somewhere around Holden's legs. 

"I had eight confirmed kills in that time," said Bill. "From the trenches, protecting the area from anybody coming down from the north. Five of them… I'm not certain were combatants. I think three of them may have even been women. In any case, they were all pretty young. Teenagers, at best.

"But Daniel… he really came into his own. He was a master sniper, suddenly. No qualms. I think he had… thirteen confirmed? And I was proud of him. He was getting the job done. That's also when he got more assertive with me. Before, we'd just fooled around. But now he would ask me to… it was the only time I've been with another man like that, all the way. And it was exhilarating. I can't really explain to you what it's like when you're in a war zone. I think it kept me alive. And Daniel was insatiable. It made me feel good."

Bill shook his head. "Holden, I swear. If I had any idea it wasn't him--"

"I know," Holden whispered.

"I thought-- the entire time, I thought it was what he wanted."

"I know you're not a rapist," said Holden. "And I don't think he felt that way. He wanted you." 

"How the fuck would you know," Bill spat. 

"Because he showed me--"

"Because the demon showed you." Bill scowled. "Holden, that thing fucking _lies_." 

He put his head in his hands again. Took a breath. 

"They made us shoot rounds into the night." Bill's voice shook, like a child, and he cleared his throat angrily. "To keep the North Koreans away. Any North Koreans. Daniel _volunteered._ And during this time-- there was this power vacuum, right after we liberated this town, where it wasn't just chaos on the front lines. I told you, people were fighting in town, too. There were just-- murders, all the time. Children slaughtered in the streets. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it. Everybody blamed everybody else."

He swallowed hard.

"One night he was missing from barracks. I went looking for him in town. I found him in an alley… with a woman… he had--" 

Bill covered his mouth. He had never spoken about this since that time, and hadn't realized how much speaking about it would feel like vomiting. It roiled inside him.

"It's okay, Bill," said Holden. 

It wasn't okay. Now that it was halfway out, it had to be all the way out, or it would finish the job of eating Bill alive. 

"He'd-- cut her open," he gagged on the words. He'd interviewed dozens of victims, listened patiently while they found the words for fuzzy, half-formed memories their brains didn't want them to keep. But saying it was something fucking else. "He'd sliced her to ribbons, and cut her wide open. He had her heart in his hands, like it was a--" 

Bill swallowed hard.

"I said something like, _Jesus Danny what are you doing?_ And he looked up at me with this _grin_ and I realized it wasn't him. And it wasn't shell shock, or battle fatigue. It was something that wasn't Daniel, and it was pure fucking evil." 

Bill covered his face and struggled to breathe.

"That fucking thing was eating Daniel from the inside out for three fucking weeks and I didn't notice." 

He heard Holden shift behind him. Felt a gentle hand on his back.

"I took him to the army chaplains," Bill continued. "Told them what I had seen. It just let me lead him by the hand. It laughed the entire time. Threw everything I'd told it back in my face. It told me that I had raped Daniel. Because he didn't want any of it. 

"The chaplains took him into one of the abandoned trenches. They exorcised him there. It took over a week. I think it had been inside Daniel so long, it just had this grip on him. They didn't let me be part of it, but I saw a little, and by the end of it… Jesus, there was hardly anything left of him. He was just skin and bones. 

"He apologized to me. He told me he loved me. That he wanted… he had prayed to God for strength, like I had told him to, but God didn't grant it. So he turned…" Bill shook his head. "I don't know how he found out about it. I guess it just found him. He was terrified it was going to come back. And that it would corrupt him completely. He asked me to kill him. That would save his soul, at least. But I…"

Bill stared down at his hands. 

"I killed all those Koreans. Those kids. I just couldn't do it anymore. He waited until I was asleep, and took my sidearm. Did it himself. They sent me home two days later."

A long pause. 

"I should have protected him," Bill muttered, barely an utterance at all. 

"Did you love him?" Holden asked. 

Well, Jesus, what a question. "We were young," said Bill. "He was... nice. And sweet. I've never forgotten him." He shifted uncomforably. Scratched at his shoulder. "It's like I said, Holden. It was the army. You fooled around, you blew off steam. That was okay. But if I loved him, then it would have been a sin."

Bill felt a weak hand patting his arm. He turned to look at Holden's very sad, very pale face. 

"It's not a sin," said his pilgrim. "How can love ever be a sin?" 

Bill scoffed. 

"C'mon, Bill. I think I'm more of an authority on this than you."

Bill huffed a laugh. He ran a hand through Holden's hair, bangs plastered to his forehead with chrism. "Do you really believe that?"

Holden dropped his heavy gaze. With his right arm busted and held in a sling, he weakly gestured a sign of the cross with his left arm. 

"I absolve you of your sins," he said. 

Bill snorted. 

"I'm serious," said Holden. "They're gone."

"Okay," said Bill. 

"Just because you don't see me as a real priest," sulked Holden. "Just because I don't…" He kept his gaze on the sheets. "You're a good man, Sir Tench."

"Well," said Bill. 

Another hesitant, weak pat on his arm, before he turned away. 

"I know you're not a rapist," said Holden. "You didn't know it wasn't him."

"I should have known," said Bill. 

"It was the Crusades," said Holden. "You were young." He inched closer. "I know that demon showed me lies, but I think sometimes they were wrapped in the truth. And in all Danny's memories that he gave me-- he was scared, and confused, but whenever he looked at you, it was warm and bright. So bright. Like an avenging angel. You almost… burned him to look at. That whole time when you were trying to help me, you looked the same way. Just bright and warm and good. I think that's why the demon wanted you as a trophy."

Bill lowered his head. He felt an uncomfortable creep up his shoulders and chest. 

"Daniel felt safe when you were around," said Holden. He blinked rapidly. His eyes were wet again. "I might be far from grace. I might not know what love is. I've never really felt the presence of God. But I feel safer when you're around, too. I feel seen. I feel… less restless when I'm with you." 

Bill sighed. Closed his eyes against that earnest young face. "Holden--"

Holden leaned forward and knocked his face against Bill's. "Please, Bill," he said against closed lips. It wasn't a kiss so much as it was a piteous rubbing together of lips. 

Bill gently put his hand on Holden's shoulders. "Kid…" 

"I'm frightened," Holden finally said, plainly. His voice got weaker by the word. "He's gonna come back. He won't stop until he has you. I don't want him to get you. He can take me, I don't care anymore."

"Shut up, Holden," said Bill. 

"If he gets _you_\--" 

"I know," said Bill. "It's okay, kid."

"I don't-- you probably don't want to hear it. But I..." 

"I know," said Bill. "Just, don't move. You'll hurt your arm." 

Holden surged forward, more insistent, the shy, eager, gasping kiss of someone who had never done it, but had read a lot about it. 

Bill carefully put an arm around Holden's waist and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. 

"Oh," Holden breathed when they finally parted. He sounded surprised. "I love you, Bill." He wrapped his good arm around Bill's shoulder, and pulled himself up for more. 

They kissed and kissed as Bill gently laid Holden down on the pillows, mindful of his many injuries. 

Holden timidly opened his mouth, letting Bill's tongue explore gently inside. Bill stroked his side carefully, trembling with passion he was barely keeping in check. It was beautiful, but torturous. It was over a year of built up tension and yearning and self-hate, almost none of which was sated by this ever-deepening kiss. It was an endless churn of want, and guilt, and _want_ for more, more, deeper, _more_.

When he broke away to gaze at Holden, his pilgrim was flushed, and panting, his eyes wide and bright, pupils blown. 

"Bill," Holden gasped. "Geeze, is it always like that?"

Bill smiled wryly, and dropped a kiss on Holden's forehead. "I don't think so," he admitted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the tease! This thing just keeps spitting out words before getting to the good part! Also I didn't want this chapter to be 10k words lol.


	6. What You Fear is What You Find

Bill kissed Holden’s face. He gently nibbled on Holden's ear. 

"Mmm!" Holden wiggled bashfully, unsure what to make of this sensation. He turned his head impatiently and caught Bill's mouth in another clumsy kiss, poking his tongue inside with almost teenaged enthusiasm.

Bill chuckled into the kiss, gently stroking Holden's cheek to calm him.

“Was it good?" Holden asked, voice scratchy and strained.

"Huh?"

"The..." Holden looked away, cheeks flushing. "I've never _kiss_-kissed anyone."

"Oh," said Bill. "Well, yes. It was a good _kiss_-kiss."

"I married God when I too young," Holden said mournfully.

"I guess He's not much of a kisser, huh?" quipped Bill.

Holden didn't usually laugh at Bill's jokes, and he didn't laugh now. He stared up at Bill in blank, wide-eyed awe.

Bill took the opportunity to start kissing down Holden's throat. He pushed the motel robe aside, and gently ran his fingers down the young priest's chests, his erect nipples, avoiding the bandaged burn between them. 

Holden weakly gripped Bill's shoulder with his good hand. He kept wiggling around as Bill touched him, gasping and sometimes giggling. He was ticklish all over, untouched in every way, and he covered his face with his good arm when Bill kissed a trail down his soft belly.

"Bill," he gasped, trying to curl protectively upon himself. Bill kept him flat with firm hands on his thighs. "Nnnggh," the pilgrim kept moaning, embarrassed.

His cock was stiffening. Bill didn't have it in him to touch it just yet, but he took a moment to be pleased with himself that he was making Holden have this reaction. He long thought himself unattractive to pretty young things like Holden. 

Bill quickly checked the wound in Holden's side, that it wasn't bleeding through the gauze pad. He gently kissed on the edges of the duct tape, and then down towards Holden's hip.

"Bill, wait," he heard a scratchy voice say. A tentative hand ran through his hair. "Tie me up."

"What?" 

Holden's eyes were big and wet. "In case he comes back. Tie me up."

"I don't want to do that, Holden," said Bill. "Your arm can't handle it."

"Just the other arm," said Holden. "And my legs. Just in case, Bill."

"What the hell is that gonna do?" Bill asked. "He broke them so easily. He was just toying with us, pretending he couldn't." 

"It would make me feel better," Holden pleaded.

Bill sighed. He picked himself off the bed and went through their supplies, found the last length of rope.

"Just the one arm," he said. "I'm not doing this to you with your legs tied."

Holden was flat on his back, his busted arm bound in a makeshift sling. He pouted as Bill tied his good arm loosely to the headboard. He tugged at the rope experimentally. "It should be tighter, Bill."

"No," said Bill. "It'll just tear your other arm out, if it has to. Stop talking now." He bent down and kissed Holden hard, until Holden sighed into his mouth, and relaxed.

Bill kissed all up Holden's bound arm. He gently took Holden's good hand and kissed the palm, making Holden sigh deeply. He kissed each ragged finger nail, each knuckle. Bill kissed through the rope to Holden's wrist, then down the soft side of his arm, his tricep, making Holden whimper and shudder in ticklishness. 

Bill shoved his face into Holden's exposed armpit.

"Nnggh!" Holden tried to pull away. "Bill!" 

"What," Bill said between kisses down Holden's ribcage.

Holden was beyond words. He just made strained noises, and tugged at the rope, and kicked his legs slightly, overwhelmed.

Bill spread Holden's thighs and settled down between them. Holden flailed, hiding his face in his bound arm bashfully, tightening his thighs around Bill, years of shame keeping him modest.

Bill kissed each of Holden's hips, then tentatively kissed at the base of his cock, then even more tentatively, the head.

"Hnmmmm!" Holden moaned loudly, biting his own bicep. He sounded agonized.

Bill started down Holden's left leg, gently caressing the scars inside that pale thigh. He groped the backside of the thigh, reached down and grabbed a handful of Holden's round ass. 

Holden panted and sighed, his eyes screwed shut, hands clenched, face still hidden, steadfastly keeping his gaze away from Bill. 

Bill lifted Holden's leg. He kissed the backside of Holden's thigh, the underside of his knee, eliciting another ticklish round of gasps and embarrassed giggles. Holden weakly tried to pull away. Bill kept a firm grip, kissed up Holden's calf, to his foot. He massaged with rough hands. He kissed the arch, sucked gently on each toe.

"Nnngghh!" cried Holden. "Bill, what are you doing?" He gazed up imploringly, eyes huge, face red and wet.

Bill leaned up and nuzzled his face into Holden's sling, kissing the fingers that peeked out, curling around the rolled towel. "Every inch of you," Bill said, "is sacred. You were made in the image of God, Holden."

"Oh, Christ," Holden sobbed. 

Bill repeated his worship on Holden's other leg, caressing and kissing every inch of him, each toe. He lay gentle, loving kisses on each scar inside Holden's thigh.

"Bill," Holden whined. He was fully hard, and his erect cock bobbed and leaked. Bill was getting there, too. 

"You need to quit talking unless you want me to stop," said Bill. "You're losing your voice."

Holden shook his head. "Don't be so gentle," he said. "I want it to hurt."

"What?"

"I don't think it should feel so good," Holden said. A tear ran down his face sideways, into his hairline. "We shouldn't enjoy it too much, right? Because of our vows."

Bill rested his head on Holden's chest. "Jesus Christ," he whispered. "What are you doing to me? Holden, you can't beg me to fuck you, and say love is never a sin, and then say you don't want to enjoy it." He got up on his elbows and gazed at Holden, who shied away. "I'm not gonna hurt you. This isn't-- we're not fucking, okay? I'm going to make love to you."

"What?" Holden looked absolutely stunned. 

"That's what you were saying, isn't it?" Bill crept forward and cradled Holden's face in his hands. Kissed his lips. Couldn't quite bring himself to look his pilgrim in the eye. "Holden, it's okay. If you feel-- I feel the same way. That's why I'm still here. If we need to make love to keep that thing away, then I'm going to make love to you. This isn't just fucking. Right?"

Holden's eyes were big as saucers. He nodded nervously. "Right, Bill."

"And it's gonna feel good," Bill said. "You-- it's okay to feel good, Holden. It's okay for both of us. I think."

Holden squirmed against the rope. His cock was hard and leaking. 

Bill sucked gently on one little pink nipple, then the other. He laid a hand over his pilgrim’s frantically beating heart.

"Who made you, Holden?" he asked. "Who made your restless heart? Who gave you all your desires?"

"God did," Holden whispered, another tear running down to his hairline.

"Who did He make you for?"

"Himself."

"Does He make any mistakes?"

Holden hiccuped a little. "No," he finally said.

Bill leaned forward and kissed each of Holden's eyelids. "God made you to be loved, Holden. So I'm going to love you. You deserve every drop of happiness you can get." 

"So do you.” Holden kept his eyes screwed shut as Bill stroked his cheek and nuzzled at his ear. "Say yes, Bill. It's important for me that you know that all these nice things you're saying go both ways." 

Bill huffed a laugh. "Yeah, okay," he said half-heartedly. He tugged off his undershirt as he kissed another line down the sparse treasure trail on Holden's belly.

Holden kept his pubic hair trimmed. Everything about him was so neat and clean and tidy, a very tempting vessel for corruption, to be sure. Bill nosed a little at the nest of hair, making Holden writhe again in embarrassment, tug at his rope, and try to close his thighs around Bill's head. 

Bill kept those thighs splayed open with firm hands as he settled once more between them. It had been a long time, but mouthing at Holden's balls felt natural, and good, and right. He sucked gently there for a bit while Holden whimpered, then licked a hot stripe up Holden's slender cock with his fat tongue.

"Fffuuck," Holden breathed. "Bill… wh…that’s…you’re…” he broke off, and wiggled helplessly in Bill's grasp.

Bill gave Holden's cock messy, open-mouthed kisses, lapping at the head, occasionally popping it in his mouth to suck on like it was a lollipop. 

When Holden was tossing his head and all but crying, Bill took his cock down his throat. Or he tried, at least. He gagged a little when it hit the back of his throat, and he had to slow down. 

Holden made an undignified squeaking noise, and his hips shuddered. Bill had to let go of one of those outrageous thighs, lick his hand, and take Holden's cock in his grip to keep the kid from humping his eye out.

Holden's cock in his mouth was bigger than it looked. Bill tried again, making a conscious effort to keep his throat open, and worked as much of it down as he could. He sucked gently, and bobbed up and down, tightening his hand on the base of Holden's cock. 

With his other hand, he caressed Holden's thigh and reached under him to paw at his round ass, keeping control of his pelvis. He sucked harder, swirling his tongue around the head when he withdrew with a loud slurp, then diving right back in.

"Fuck!" Holden cried, his voice almost shattered. "Bill! I want to touch you." His legs wrapped tight around Bill's head now, his heels pounded at Bill's back. He pulled at his rope, and his busted arm strained at its sling.

Bill pulled off with another wet slurp, panting. "Shoulda thought of that before you asked to be tied up," he said, before shoving Holden's hard, leaking cock back in his mouth.

Holden sobbed and arched his back. "Billll," he cried, his entire body trembling.

Swallowing was a little advanced for Bill. When Holden came, Bill drew back, and kept stroking Holden's cock all the way through it. He watched in avid wonder as Holden's seed spurted out, messily dribbling over Holden's belly. 

Holden buried in face in his bound arm, sweaty and flushed all over. "Jesus Christ," he sobbed, broken.

Bill was unused to the sight of another man's jizz, and he wasn't sure how Holden would feel about being covered in it. He went to the bathroom, his hard cock straining uncomfortably against his briefs, and came back with a warm, wet face cloth. He found himself humping the mattress absently as he cleaned Holden. He gave himself a quick, reassuring squeeze as he grabbed a pillow.

"Lift your hips for me, sweetheart," he said gently. Holden shivered at _sweetheart_. Bill put the pillow under Holden's hips. 

Holden squeezed his trembling thighs together modestly. Bill took both of Holden's ankles in one hand and lifted his legs, exposing his ass, so he could paw at it. "Fuck. Holden. Just… fuck."

"What's wrong?" Holden sounded worried. 

"Nothing," Bill said. He squeezed each round, shapely cheek, ran his fingers over Holden's taint down to his crack. "It's just-- fuck. Do you know how long I've been thinking about your ass? Jesus. It's just… Jesus."

Holden huffed. "Sorry," he said.

"No, no," said Bill. "God made it to be looked at. It's a work of art." He pawed at it a little more, used his fingers to tease Holden's cheeks apart. Holden whined and struggled, but there was nothing he could do. He ended up pulling his knees towards his chest, while Bill held his ankles out of the way, his ass on full display.

"Oh, Goddddd," Holden whined. He was red almost all over. 

Bill leaned down and kissed the back of Holden's thighs. He'd thought about this a long time, about rubbing his face against those thighs, rubbing his stubble against that soft skin. 

Bill very slowly worked his face down towards Holden's ass. He'd waited this long, after all, he might as well take his time. He kissed each round cheek and gave them the loving attention they deserved, before finally laying a kiss right on Holden's crack. 

"Bill!" Holden shuddered. 

Bill let go of Holden's ankles, so he could spread his pilgrim's tempting cheeks apart with both hands. 

Holden was bent in half, his ass exposed to the air with the pillow under his hips. Bill leaned over his ass, with Holden's legs draped inelegantly across his back.

Holden's tiny, tight little hole looked so vulnerable, so new, so tempting. Bill finally gave in, and gave it the gentlest of kisses. 

"Fuck, Bill, fuck!" Holden panted, pulling at the rope, kicking helplessly at Bill's back. 

Bill kept kissing, and licking, gradually growing fiercer and bolder. He tongued at Holden's tiny, clenching hole, and gave it loud, messy kisses. Finally he ran a blunt fingertip over it, pushed it the tiniest bit inside. 

"Christ have mercy," Holden breathed, and it startled a laugh out of Bill. 

"What kind of mercy are you talking about, Holden?" he asked, running his finger around that little hole teasingly. 

"Billll pleeeaassee!" 

Bill leaned down and gave Holden's asshole another long, messy kiss, in the French style. He could get his tongue in a little bit further now, and probed assertively. The whine Holden made was completely worth it. 

"Okay," Bill said, drawing back and giving Holden's ass another fond caress. He gently let Holden's legs back down, let him stretch on the bed. "How are you feeling, kid?"

"Fuck you, Bill," Holden muttered. He hid his face in his arm, and his entire neck and chest were flushed pink. His cock was hard again. 

Bill kissed his belly and his hips and his throat. He got up on his knees and pushed his briefs down his thighs, letting his hitherto neglected hardness out. 

Holden peeked out from the shelter of his bound arm. His eyes went huge, and he stared, unblinking. 

Bill stroked himself, looking down at Holden fondly. "Oh, shit," he muttered. It had been many long years since he’d done this, after all. He hadn't thought this through. Holden's puckered little hole was wet with saliva but not much else.

Bill went hunting around the room, and the only thing he could come up with were those three little vials of holy oil sitting on the nightstand. He picked them up, shame-faced. But it's not like they hadn't already sacrileged everything in Holden's mass kit. 

The vial of chrism, almost empty, had the loosest top. 

Holden shook his head. “Not that one. Use one of the others," he whispered, pointing as best he could with his bound hand. "They're just olive oil."

Of course, the chrism had myrrh in it. Would probably burn like hell.

Bill frowned, and poured a generous measure of catechumen oil on his hands. Catechumen oil was meant to ward off evil, and help the catechumen avoid temptation. He sighed warily as he warmed the oil in his hands. 

He rubbed the oil over his cock, then once again spread Holden's thighs. Holden was nervous and wary to open them. "Come on, sweetheart," Bill said, lowering his pitch. He noticed how Holden once again shivered all over at _sweetheart_, and decided he liked it. "Open your legs for me."

Holden shyly opened his thighs, and let Bill run oil-slicked fingers up his crack. 

Bill probed again at that little hole, gently slipping in one finger, and then two, pausing to pour a bit more oil on to ease the way. 

Holden was so very, very tight, and he clenched again Bill's fingers. He winced and made an adorable little grunting sound. 

"It's okay, sweetheart," Bill said. "Just relax for me." He probed a bit more, tried to scissor his fingers a bit. "Holden, you have to relax. I'm not going to hurt you, but you have to work with me, here." 

Holden pressed his face hard into his bicep, and looked to be biting his tongue. He nodded, and whimpered a little. The clenching eased up slightly on Bill's fingers, enough for him to thrust a little in and out, and spread more lube around. 

But there wasn't much more of this Bill could take. He was about ready to burst. He gently lined himself up. "You ready, sweetheart?"

Holden nodded, face still pressed up against his bicep. 

Bill gently pushed his cock against his pilgrim's little hole, guiding himself with one hand. 

"Okay, but you have to relax, baby," he said, when he was met with a brick wall. 

"I'm trying," Holden croaked, his bound hand tensing against the rope. 

"I know," Bill said. He leaned over Holden, kissed gently at his throat. He wasn't sure how close to his mouth Holden would want his after what he'd done with it. "I'm here, Holden. I'm gonna be as gentle as I can. Take all the time you need."

He rested himself against Holden's ass, and gripped one thigh with a firm hand. He stroked Holden's side with his other hand, and kissed around his collarbone gently. 

Finally, with a little shudder and whimper, Holden relaxed enough that Bill could start to slip in. He propped himself up on one arm and guided himself in with the other hand, watching intently as his cock head finally breached that twitching little hole, and slipped inside. 

"Oh God almighty," gasped Holden. "It's so big!" 

Bill chuckled, and he might have even blushed. He kissed Holden's throat again, then leaned back and draped Holden’s legs astride his shoulders. He took Holden by the hips and gently, gently, gently pressed more of himself in. 

Being inside Holden Ford felt... unbelievable. Hot and warm and tight and safe. It was like nothing Bill had felt in years, if he'd ever felt anything like it at all. He had to steel himself against rutting madly, instead sinking himself in slowly, inch by agonizing inch. 

Holden gasped and panted against him. "Oh Bill. Oh, fuck! Bill!" 

Bill couldn't quite fit all the way. He gently withdrew and thrust back in, thinking he'd hit Holden's sweet spot, and was rewarded with more open-mouth moaning and writhing. 

"Oooohhhh Goddddd," Holden sobbed. 

"Fuck," Bill hissed, trying to keep himself from going too fast and too hard. 

"Bill. Bill!" Holden cried. He pulled at his bonds. "I want to touch you."

"I know, sweetheart."

"My name is Holden Ford," his pilgrim choked. "And I want to touch you. Please." 

"Okay, okay." Bill gently took Holden's legs off his shoulders. Holden wrapped them around Bill's waist, drawing him closer in, wincing and grunting a bit as he took more of Bill inside. 

Bill leaned forward and hastily undid the rope binding Holden's good arm. Holden immediately wrapped it around Bill's shoulders, pulling him in for a deep kiss. 

Bill let himself sink into the warm deliciousness of Holden Ford, lying on top of him, putting his weight on one hand to keep himself from crushing the younger man. He stroked Holden's side, his hips, grabbed at his thigh, and thrust deeply and gently. 

Holden moaned into his mouth, clutched his shoulder tightly, and kissed and kissed and kissed. 

Bill had wanted to do so much for so long. He wanted to do so many things with Holden, introduce him to so much pleasure. But mostly, he wanted Holden to be loved. He wanted Holden to be fucked the way he deserved-- gently and lovingly and very, very well. So he restrained himself, and, when Holden wasn't kissing him like his life depended on it, he drew back and watched Holden's face carefully as he thrust, and thrust, and brought him closer and closer to the edge. 

Holden clenched desperately around him. His eyes watered, and he stared up at Bill in awe, and it was absolutely fucking gorgeous. 

"Fuck, Bill," his pilgrim moaned. 

"You're so good," said Bill. "You're so good, Holden. I want you to feel this.”

Holden whined. He pulled Bill in for another kiss, wrapped his thighs tight around him, ran his hand through Bill's hair. "I love you," he said. "I love you. God!" He clenched hard, and came again, hugging Bill close, moaning as loud as his damaged voice would let him. 

"Good boy," soothed Bill. "God, that's so good. Let it out." He eased up on his thrusts, and kissed Holden's neck. He was so very close, but also so far, a terrible combination of stress and sleeplessness keeping release at bay. 

What finally did it was Holden pulling his hair, and kissing his ear. "Come on, Bill," he breathed. "I want to feel it." 

He didn't see the look on Holden's face when he came inside him. But after a few moments of blissful non-thinkingness, resting his head on Holden's chest and panting, he drew back and looked down. Holden looked angelic, flushed, and utterly happy. 

"Thank you, Bill," he whispered, his shining eyes fluttering shut. 

\--

It was not the way Bill would have liked their first time to go, if he were to admit to thinking about it. Holden was so young and fulsome, and full of quiet, sturdy life. In the fantasies Bill would not admit that he indulged in, his first time with Holden went all night, or at least had a second round. His first time with Holden also would have certainly not been a panic-fuelled fumble after demonic possession. 

As it was, Holden fell right back asleep, and Bill felt that terrible guilt creep right back inside him— for taking advantage of a young priest in a time of spiritual suffering, for using Holden when he was already so physically damaged, for about a million other things. He cleaned Holden up, and tucked him back into bed, and took a shower. After a nap, when it was dark out and Holden was still fast asleep, he jogged up the street to get them pizza and drinks. 

Bill got more ice for Holden’s shoulder. They watched Carson and ate, alternating slice for slice out of the box. They didn't talk, but Holden cuddled beside him, once more resting his head on Bill's shoulder. He fell asleep again before either the pizza or the show was finished. Bill tidied, and curled up in bed beside his pilgrim. 

\--

In the morning of the sixth day of their ordeal, Holden's voice was entirely gone. He looked sore, but otherwise hale, and he smiled up at Bill sleepily. Bill found his little notebook for investigations, and Holden wrote as well as he could with his left hand. 

_I'd like to go to mass today, Sir Tench._

"Okay," said Bill. "Breakfast first, though." 

He helped Holden shower, and they both snuck little glances at each other, but otherwise didn't touch. He re-dressed Holden’s wounds, and the young priest looked stoically away, cheeks slightly pink. 

When he helped Holden dress, however, it was different. Holden stared at him with that singular focus while Bill was buttoning his shirt for him, the short-sleeved black. When Bill was finished, Holden leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to Bill's mouth. 

Bill didn't draw back, or get angry. He dropped his gaze to the floor and didn't know what to do. When he looked up, Holden smiled shyly at him. 

They went to a diner, and Bill ordered almost everything on the menu. 

When they got to the church, Holden had no trouble entering. He blessed himself at the font, and got on the kneeler, and prayed. When he was finished, he sat close to Bill, their sides touching, as other parishioners started gathering for mass. 

Holden looked over at the confessional booths, and then back at Bill. He gestured his head at the booths. _Do you want to say confession?_

Bill thought about what they had done. He thought about sweet Daniel Graham, and the monster that was almost certainly not finished with him. Maybe if he unburdened himself of all this, he'd be better equipped when it inevitably found him again. When it came for Nancy, and Brian. Maybe he needed to do something drastic to make sure that never happened. 

But for the time being...

"I don't have anything to confess," he said. "Do you?"

Holden regarded him for a while. His mouth curved into a small, sad smile. He shook his head. 

THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm VivaRocksteady on tumblr and pillowfort, and also run the very small [backroom boys](https://www.pillowfort.social/community/backroomboys) comm on PF. 
> 
> Chapter titles are from the song "Greedy Fly" by Bush. A playlist for this fic is [here on 8tracks!](https://8tracks.com/vivarocksteady/the-lesser-key-of-holden-ford)


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